


That was Then, This is Now

by KouriArashi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Derek and Scott are Brothers, Detective Stiles, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Found Family, Hale Family Feels, Hunter Hales, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mystery, Pack Dynamics, Past Sexual Abuse, Revenge, Slow Burn, Werewolf Argents, because Kate exists, but with lots of flashbacks to young Chris and Peter, reverse trope, season one AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 117,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris sits back in his chair, not even sure what to do or say, wondering suddenly and abstractly how he had wound up here, sitting in this nursing home with his first – well. He couldn’t call Peter his first love, precisely – what was between them hadn’t been the sort of thing they had ever put labels on, but damn it, it had been something. And not just the hormones of two teenaged boys, largely sheltered from the rest of the world. He had found himself inexplicably drawn to Peter, so even if they spent months apart, the next time they saw each other, it was as if no time had passed at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, friends and neighbors, this is my first stab at a Petopher fic, a pairing which first made me go o_O but then started to grow on me hard and fast. Because . . . snark and pigtail pulling. And pining and wanting what you know isn’t good for you. 
> 
> Inspired by [this lovely prompt](http://moonlettuce.tumblr.com/post/77024467838/homoqueens-prettiestcaptain-oops-i-did) from [this lovely author](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire). It’s basically a season one AU, but there’s going to be a lot of young Chris and Peter and flashbacks to their relationship before the fire, et cetera. It's rated E both because there will be some sex (I mean... it's Petopher) and because there will be some graphic violence.
> 
> Additional note: I basically pretend 3.08 (Visionary) never happened. I think it kind of murdered Peter’s character. His season one narrative is that he might have been an arrogant, sarcastic dick, but he truly loved his family and was driven off the deep end by their murder. That’s the Peter that I’ve chosen to use here, no matter what Visionary might say about his nature (or Derek’s, for that matter) before the fire.
> 
> Additional additional note: Since we really have no idea how old anyone in Teen Wolf is supposed to be, for added ease of narrative, I’ve decided that the “parental” cluster of adults is all about the same age. This lets me put Chris, Peter, Melissa, and Papa Stilinski all in the same high school class together so they can be friends. (Peter is actually a little bit younger but skipped a grade or two, because of course he did.) (PS - I use 'Tom' as Papa Stilinski's first name because I like it better than John.)

 

_now_

 

Sheriff Stilinski looks up from his paperwork as his phone buzzes. “Tom, there’s a Chris Argent here to see you,” Sandy says, and Tom’s eyebrows go up in surprise. He hasn’t seen Chris Argent in over six years, he doesn’t think, and they had always been more friends-of-friends than anything else. But before he has much chance to ponder this, Sandy ushers the other man into Tom’s office. He looks pretty much the same as Tom remembers him. Hair a little shorter, a bit of gray at the temples, but that’s all. Six years hasn’t changed him much.

“Chris, long time no see,” he says, standing up and shaking the man’s hand. “Are you back in town?”

“Just for the weekend,” Chris says, “but I might be coming back long-term. I’m here about a job opportunity, so . . .”

Tom nods. “What can I do for you?”

Chris hesitates, looking painfully awkward. “I thought while I was here . . . I might check in on the Hale kids, see how they’re doing.”

“Ah,” Tom says. He’s never been one hundred percent sure of what was going on between Chris Argent and Peter Hale, but, well, he _is_ one hundred percent sure that _something_ had been going on between them. “Sure, of course. Laura’s away at grad school right now, but Cora still lives with me, and Derek got adopted by Melissa McCall, if you remember her. We have dinner together two or three times a week. You’re welcome to join us tonight.”

“I’d like that,” Chris says.

Tom tears off a sheet of paper and jots down an address. “We usually eat at about six, six thirty,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Don’t bring wine.”

Chris almost smiles. It’s an expression that looks strange on his face, creasing it into lines that aren’t usually present. Then he stands there for a few moments, the awkwardness increasing.

“Was there something else?” Tom asks.

Chris lets out a breath and appears to bite an extremely bad-tasting bullet. “I thought while I was here . . . I might go see Peter. But I don’t know where . . .”

“Oh, of course,” Tom says. “I bring the kids to see him once a week or so. He’s at Greenbriar Terrace. It’s a long-term care place, on the west side of town.” He’s already putting another address on the sheet of paper as he speaks. “Room 196.”

He’s not sure why, but Chris looks momentarily stricken, like he had received some sort of answer that was completely foreign to everything he had expected and it had turned his world upside down. But he tamps it down quickly, thanks Tom again, and then departs. Tom frowns after him for several long minutes before he shakes his head and texts Melissa to let her know that they’re going to have one more for dinner.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

“I know what you are.”

The words were spoken casually, without a hint of threat or even genuine emotion, but still Peter nearly spilled his water all over the table. He looked up at the taller boy who was sliding into the seat across from him, the boy he had spent the last two weeks making friendly overtures towards, getting coldly rebuffed every time. It had come as something of a surprise. Peter had the utmost faith in his charm and his ability to manipulate others, but this boy, this Chris Argent, had proved entirely unsusceptible.

“Beg pardon?” he asked, since there didn’t seem to be any other response in the entire world that would make sense.

Chris just continued to give him that look. A combination of wary suspicion and anger. “I’m just saying,” he said, “you can stop trying to weasel your way into being my friend. It isn’t going to work, so give it up.”

Peter feigned a laugh, focused on his heartbeat, made sure to keep it steady. “Uh, sure, okay,” he said. “You clearly have a very high opinion of yourself. I’ll stop worrying about the fact that you’re barely passing English and that you have no friends.”

The other teenager glared at him for a long minute, then shook his head. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and turned and walked away, leaving Peter blinking after him.

“The hell does he mean, I’ll . . .” he started, and wondered what had happened in the last six hours that he didn’t know about. He packed up what was left of his lunch and headed back to the house that his father had gotten them on the preserve. Privacy was always a necessity for hunters, though they’d been somewhat surprised that the Argent pack didn’t already live there.

It was a bold move, settling in a town with a known pack, but Beacon Hills was a hotspot of supernatural activity. “We’re needed here,” Patrick Hale had said, and bought the house. So far, Peter and Talia both had to agree. They’d been there less than a month and they’d already had to take down three vampires, an incubus, and a troll.

It was well known that the Argent pack had a code, that they never hurt innocents or turned anyone without consent. Patrick had apparently done some sort of negotiation with Eloise, the current alpha, that had left the adults satisfied. But Peter wasn’t an adult, not yet. At sixteen, he was more curious than was good for him, smarter than his father, and chafing underneath the man’s control. It had been his own decision to try to make friends with Chris Argent. Who knew what he might find out?

Nothing, was the apparent answer. There were only two Argents in his age group: Chris and his younger sister Kate. The rest of their pack was Mirielle Argent’s two siblings and their children, who were too young for Peter to be interested in. Peter had met Kate, and didn’t like her. Something about her set his metaphorical hackles on edge, and he had learned over the years to trust his instincts.

Regardless, Peter didn’t really give even half of a fuck about his grades, so he had no problem ditching school and heading back to the house. He found Talia there by herself, cleaning her guns and, when she saw him come in, looking exasperated. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” she asked.

Peter shrugged. “Probably. What’s going on? Why are you here by yourself?”

Talia frowned at him. “Eloise Argent called a meeting for tonight; Dad and Uncle Andrew went to pick some things up. They seem to think that we mean to cause trouble.”

“Why would they think that?” Peter asked innocently.

Talia’s eyes narrowed. “Somehow I feel like you’re better equipped to answer that question than I am, but I’m going to let Dad handle you.”

“Spoilsport,” Peter said, and went upstairs to wait for the axe to fall. His father arrived home half an hour later, delivered a blistering and thorough lecture on why he shouldn’t even _talk_ to a werewolf without permission, ignored all of Peter’s protests that he was sixteen, not six, and dragged him to the Argent house practically by his ear.

Eloise Argent was a woman who had just left middle age, and she looked like she had bitten down on a lemon. She launched right into her diatribe before even allowing Patrick to say anything. Peter had to admit it was a little disconcerting, standing in this huge room with werewolves surrounding him. Instincts that had been trained into him since he was vertical screamed that he should either run or fight. Behind Eloise stood her oldest son-in-law, Gerard, who was smirking like he was really going to enjoy watching all the Hales get ripped apart.

“We allowed you to settle on your territory because we had your _word_ that you weren’t interested in us,” Eloise railed. “I thought the word of a Hale still meant something, but apparently I was incorrect! Do you have any explanation whatsoever for the fact that your son was spying on one of our betas?”

“I wouldn’t call it spying,” Patrick said, somewhat cautiously. “Yes, he was attempting to befriend Chris, but there were no ulterior motives.”

“Why do I find that difficult to believe?’ Eloise retorted. “All the children in the entire school, and he goes out of his way to befriend _my_ grandson.”

Peter stepped forward. “No, you’re right,” he said, and he heard his father give a little groan behind him. “I thought maybe I could stumble upon some sort of information. But the decision was mine and mine alone. You shouldn’t hold my father responsible for my actions.”

Eloise gave him a hard look. “Exactly what sort of ‘information’ were you trying to find?”

“Well,” Peter said, “if you and your pack truly don’t hurt innocents, that would put you in a very small minority. I’m sure you’re aware of that. A little independent verification seemed prudent, if we’re going to be sharing territory.”

“Peter,” his father hissed, “be quiet.”

But Eloise is looking at Peter thoughtfully. “I suppose you do have something of a point,” she said, “although the same could be said of hunters, you know. You may follow the rules set down for you, but I doubt that none of you have ever killed a werewolf without proof of wrongdoing.”

“Well, then,” Peter replied, “maybe Chris should have tried to make friends with me, too.”

Patrick groaned behind him, but Eloise let out a bark of laughter. “Well put,” she said. “All right. Patrick, I won’t hold the actions of your son against you, but I think you’d better keep an eye on him. He’s clearly much too smart for his own good,” she added, and Patrick sighed and nodded. “While you’re here, I wanted to discuss a coven that’s in town . . . privately, I think.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. “Peter, go wait in the car.”

“I’ll make sure he gets there,” Chris said, scowling. He walked over and took Peter by the elbow, not at all gently.

“Easy on the merchandise, sweetheart,” Peter said. “I don’t turn furry once a month.”

“Call me sweetheart again and you’re going to have bigger problems than a few bruises,” Chris growled.

“See, I knew we were going to make good friends,” Peter said, as the door to the audience room shut behind them. He immediately pulled his arm out of Chris’ grasp. “Okay. Where do you listen in from?”

Chris’ scowl deepened. “The room is soundproofed. This is a werewolf den, for – ”

Peter brushed this aside impatiently. “Don’t be ridiculous; I know you have a place you can listen in from. If you’re smart enough to have caught on to the fact that I was trying to be your friend for a reason, you’re smart enough to have figured out where in this rat’s maze the acoustics are right for eavesdropping.”

There was a long moment of silence while Chris just glared at him. Then he jerked his head to one side and said, “Follow me.”

So that was how Peter wound up sandwiched in a tiny space between two hallways with a werewolf. There was barely enough room to breathe, but he could hear the conversation that the others were having about the coven loud and clear. He leaned in close to Chris’ ear and said beneath his breath, “Can they hear us?”

Chris shook his head and then shoved Peter’s face away. Pity, Peter thought. He kind of liked the idea of leaning in to talk right into the other boy’s ear for the entirety of this conversation. Some other time, perhaps, he told himself, and willed his body’s reaction to their proximity away. “This is nice,” he said. “Cozy.”

“Shut up, Hale,” Chris snapped.

“Come here often?” Peter asked, arching his eyebrows at the other teenager.

He was almost expecting to get slapped, but at the last minute, Chris’ iron lack of a sense of humor finally snapped, and he let out a snort of laughter. “Jesus, you don’t give up, do you.”

“It was a valid question,” Peter pointed out.

Chris gave him a sideways look. “Yeah,” he said, “actually. I mean, my parents never tell me anything, so if I want to have even the smallest clue about what’s going on . . . I’m seventeen, for God’s sake.”

“I know the feeling,” Peter said. “My father is still convinced that I’ll do something stupid the minute he turns his back on me.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Depends on whose definition you’re using,” Peter said. “Risks are inevitable. This round went to me. I am, after all, exactly where I want to be.”

Chris gave him an annoyed look, but then a nod of grudging respect. “You knew I’d figure you out.”

“Wouldn’t have been worth my time if you didn’t,” Peter replied, and then they both fell silent to listen to the conversation taking place below them. In the end, it wasn’t anything Peter wanted to get involved with, or anything he thought his father needed his help with. But the inroads had been made. He let Chris tug him out of the hallway and drag him down to the car.

“Get in,” Chris said, shoving him towards the vehicle.

“You know, if you keep pushing me around, you’re going to find out something about me that you might not like,” Peter remarked.

Chris sneered at him. “Is this when you try to convince me you’re some sort of pint-sized badass?”

“Oh, not at all,” Peter said. He leaned in close to Chris and said, “You might find out that I like it.”

With that, he pushed his mouth against Chris’. The kiss was brief, only a few fractions of a second. His hope that Chris would get into it didn’t come anywhere near fruition. Instead Chris shoved him back again, and he fetched up against the car hard enough to hurt. Chris snarled at him, fangs lengthening and eyes flashing gold. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Gold,” Peter said on the exhale. “Good. That’s good, Argent.”

The glow faded out of Chris’ eyes. His jaw set in an unhappy expression. “Of course they’re gold, you asshole. Did you seriously just kiss me to see what color my eyes turned?”

“Well,” Peter said, “that wasn’t the _only_ reason.” That being said, he pulled the car door open and slid inside.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

Chris Argent learned a long time ago that one of the secrets to going unchallenged to places you weren’t supposed to be was to look purposeful. If you look like you know where you’re going, people will assume that you do, and will leave you alone. So it’s with purpose that he strides down the hallway of Greenbriar Terrace, even if every neuron in his brain is screaming for him to turn around and run the other way.

It’s not as if he _doesn’t_ have a right to be there, he reasons. He has as much right to visit Peter Hale as anybody. It’s just approximately the last place he had expected to be. When he had asked Tom about visiting Peter, he had expected the location of a grave, or maybe to be told that there wasn’t one.

Peter, alive. It left him reeling, breathless. He could still remember the somber look on his father’s face when he called him into his study, told him that Peter, poor Peter, driven mad by the deaths of his family, had come after him. “I had to defend myself, son,” Gerard had said. “I won’t apologize for it. But I wanted you to hear it straight from me.”

He had left town that night, planning to never look back. Chris isn’t sure what Victoria had told Allison about their sudden move. It seemed to have satisfied the child, whatever it was. He hadn’t been able to even _look_ at his father, so he and Victoria went their separate ways from the pack for a while, moving up into the vast emptiness of Wyoming. It was only Allison that had prompted him to think about moving back. Allison was so bored and lonely living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, home-schooled for lack of a better option. And Victoria had pointed out that if they stayed away much longer, gradually they would become omega, and that wasn’t safe.

In retrospect, Chris supposes that he can’t recall whether or not Gerard had ever said Peter was actually dead. Maybe Chris had just assumed, knowing how brutal his father could be. Maybe Gerard figured he had to be, that there was no way anyone could have survived the injuries that he had inflicted. Or maybe he had been lying. Gerard is a particularly skilled liar, second only to his daughter; Chris had learned that the hard way, over years of experience.

All of this is at the back of his mind as he looks through the door to room 196 and goes inside.

Peter is sitting in a wheelchair by the window. Chris hasn’t changed much, but Peter has. His hair is longer now – God, Chris remembers how much he hated it when his hair got in his face – and he had lost a lot of weight, most of it probably muscle mass. His face is blank and slack, the lines of his sarcastic smile or worried frown erased by time.

Then there are the scars. The entire right side of Peter’s face is disfigured by them, and Chris can see them on his hands as well, disappearing underneath the sleeves. Someone has dressed him in a sweater, but underneath it he’s wearing a simple hospital gown. He doesn’t look up as Chris comes in, but just continues to stare out the window.

“Peter,” Chris says, and thank God, his voice doesn’t crack. He pulls a chair over. Studies the blank expression on Peter’s face. His brain struggles to put it all together. His eyes are open, so he isn’t comatose, and there aren’t any tubes or wires hooked up to him, so he has to have retained a certain amount of basic functioning. “It’s Chris. Can you hear me?”

Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Chris looks around for help, although he can’t imagine what sort of help he could possibly receive. He should have asked Tom, but it was clear that Tom had had no idea that Chris thought Peter was dead. And any questions he asks the nursing staff will make them wonder who he is and why he’s there, which is something he doesn’t want.

“Jesus, Peter.” Chris sits back in his chair, not even sure what to do or say, wondering suddenly and abstractly how he had wound up here, sitting in this nursing home with his first – well. He couldn’t call Peter his first love, precisely – what was between them hadn’t been the sort of thing they had ever put labels on, but damn it, it had been _something_. And not just the hormones of two teenaged boys, largely sheltered from the rest of the world. He had found himself inexplicably drawn to Peter, so even if they spent months apart, the next time they saw each other, it was as if no time had passed at all.

He supposes that it couldn’t have lasted forever.

There isn’t any point in sitting around the room in the nursing home, though. He starts to stand up. Then, on impulse, he leans forward, just barely brushes his lips over Peter’s. Then he sits back, waiting, hopefully, until he realizes what he’s doing. “Jesus, you’d kick my ass for this,” Chris says, rubbing his hands over his face. “A Disney princess, you are not. And I guess I’m no prince, either.”

He had never expected a fairy tale ending.

But he had sure as hell expected something better than this.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: although Chris and Peter are obviously the main characters of the story, there's going to be plenty of other cast members to go around. ^_^

 

_now_

The McCall house is, as always, well-lit and wonderful-smelling by the time that Sheriff Stilinski arrives after work. Melissa’s probably only been home for about ten minutes, but dinner’s obviously been on the stove for a while. Tom inhales and smells the amazing smells of chilies, cumin, oregano. He hangs up his jacket and puts his gun in the safe that he installed for just this purpose. He’s over at the McCall house three or four times a week, sometimes even more. Too often to excuse not having one there, although he supposes it’s probably not as necessary now that the kids are older.

It’s Derek who’s cooking, Derek who’s always felt an insatiable thirst to pay Melissa back for taking him in after the attack that had left him orphaned. Derek has, over the years, cooked, cleaned, babysat, changed the oil in Melissa’s car, cleaned out the gutters, and on, and on. Anything she can think of to ask him and often things that never would have occurred to her.

Melissa had been tempted to put a stop to it, but Derek’s therapist had told her to let it go, that as he worked through the trauma and settled in, it would pass. She had been right. Derek would still happily put his hand to any task needed, but he no longer became quite so agitated if there was nothing for him to do. The cooking was a habit that had stuck, however. Melissa wasn’t much of a cook, and since Derek wasn’t working, he had taken it upon himself.

“Smells great, Derek,” Tom says, heading into the kitchen and getting a beer out of the refrigerator. Derek glances at him and nods without smiling. He still doesn’t smile much, but Tom and Melissa don’t mind; it makes his rare smiles all the more precious. “Can that sit a minute? Need to talk to you and your sister about a couple things. Nothing bad,” he adds, because Derek has anxiety even on a good day. Tom supposes that’s unavoidable after one has hidden in a closet and listened to their entire family being murdered.

And it _was_ murder. Tom has never doubted that, even after the official ruling had come down. It was an animal attack, undoubtedly. The medical examiner had matched the bites and marks to the fangs and claws of a wolf. It couldn’t be denied.

But Tom had always been convinced that something else had happened. “A _wolf_ disarmed their security system?” he had asked his superiors at the time. “A wolf opened the front door instead of breaking in through a window? A wolf killed six grown men and women who were, by the way, armed to the teeth? Andrew Hale had three empty guns next to him, for Christ’s sake.”

What else could it be? the superiors responded, until Tom wanted to bang his head against a wall. The teeth marks were there. The claw marks were there. What further evidence did he need? Was Stilinski suggesting that someone had trained a wolf and then sicced it on the hunters? That they had actually been killed by some other means and someone had mutilated their bodies to cover it up, all in the brief minutes between when the children testified the attack had begun and Peter Hale had returned home to find the still-warm bodies?

No, Tom said, he wasn’t suggesting any of that. But Talia and Peter were his friends, and he wanted to make sure every avenue was explored.

And what of Peter Hale? Could it really be a coincidence that, three days after his family had been killed, his car had caught fire, leaving him badly burned and comatose? Surely there was some scrap of evidence that _that_ hadn’t been an accident.

In the end, none of his protests had mattered. He had only been a deputy then, and the man who had been sheriff had refused to look into it further. Tom wasn’t sure if he was lazy, baffled, or on the take, but the fact that he had retired to Aruba the following year couldn’t be ignored. Tom had stepped up, run for sheriff, and been elected that same year. But that didn’t change the fact that the murder of the Hale family had been a closed case, and he couldn’t reopen it without some damned compelling evidence, and Tom simply didn’t have it.

That was the one and only time in his life he had ever broken the law. He had pulled some strings, gotten some help from Melissa, and moved Peter out of the hospital in the dead of the night. He had been officially declared dead, and they had checked him into a long-term nursing facility under a fake name. _Whoever_ had been after the Hale family, Tom didn’t want them coming back to finish the job. Peter hadn’t been his favorite person in the world, but Tom’s duty was to protect the citizens of Beacon Hills, and he would do that by whatever means necessary.

“Yeah, it’s just simmering,” Derek says, jolting Tom back into the present, out of the thoughts that seeing Chris Argent had brought back to his mind. “What’s up?”

Tom beckons for Derek to follow him into the living room. The three teenagers – Scott, Stiles, and Cora – are sitting there doing their homework. Cora is bitching vigorously about the pop chemistry quiz that day while Stiles chews on his pencil – kid has an addiction, Tom swears – and occasionally jots notes. He glances up as his father comes into the room with Derek in tow and says, “Yo!”

“Hey, kids,” Tom says, smiling at them. He and Melissa had never meant to take Derek and Cora in long-term – they never would have wanted them split up. It was supposed to be a temporary thing. Peter was their uncle, and although he wasn’t exactly what anybody pictured as a father, he wanted them. He had told Tom to give him a few weeks to get a job with a steady paycheck and a place to live. Beforehand, he had worked ‘odd jobs for his family’, something Tom viewed with some suspicion, and nobody could expect any of them to live in the house where his family had been killed.

So he had taken in Cora and Melissa had agreed to look after Derek. Laura was eighteen, so technically an adult, and she went to go stay with Alan Deaton, a good friend of her mother’s. Then, three days later, Peter had been found on the side of an old country road, his car aflame. The burns had been so bad that they had nearly killed him, and he hadn’t spoken a word since then. He just sat in the nursing home, staring out the window. Doctors weren’t sure if his condition was psychological or neurological, but either way, nobody expected him to be able to take custody of the children any time soon.

The three adults had talked about their options. Nobody wanted to separate them, and the odds that anyone would be willing to take in all three were slim to none. Laura was technically an adult, and she said she would take them. She put on a brave face and prepared to sacrifice her acceptance to Berkeley. None of them were ready to let her do that.

Since moving the two children would only result in more trauma for both of them, eventually Tom and Melissa had agreed they would just each keep custody of the one they had. Money wasn’t an issue, at least – the substantial life insurance policies all the adults in the Hale family had purchased were put into trusts for the children. That was more than enough to cover living expenses.

They had both worried about their own children’s reactions to this, but didn’t need to. Scott thought having an older brother was the coolest, and Stiles was a lonely kid with a soft spot a mile wide for hurt and broken things. They had made a neat little family out of it. The insurance money had paid for individual counseling for both Derek and Cora, and family counseling if needed to help everyone settle in.

Laura had gone to Berkeley but commuted home every weekend. Derek had gradually gotten through his damn-near crippling survivor’s guilt. Cora finally stopped having screaming nightmares.

Tom and Melissa had started dating the year Derek had started college. Unlike Laura, he stayed home, going to the Beacon Hills campus of the California State system, and he continued to live with Melissa and Scott. Since they didn’t want to disrupt the kids’ lives any further, Tom and Melissa kept it low-key. They were a family, after all. They ate together several nights a week, and if whoever was being hosted often stayed the night, well, nothing bad about that.

But the murders never left the back of the sheriff’s mind. He thought about it every time he looked at his new daughter Cora. He kept a file, slowly accrued evidence, considered and disregarded theories. Sometimes he sat in the nursing ward with Peter and talked to him for hours, willing the man to look at him, talk to him. He’s convinced that Peter knew who had killed his family, and that he had been after them when his car had caught fire.

“So, we’re going to have a visitor at dinner tonight,” he says to the kids. He thought about pulling Derek and Cora aside, but Stiles will just eavesdrop so there’s no point. “I don’t know if you’ll remember him or not; his name is Chris Argent.”

Derek’s face is blank. Cora frowns slightly and then says, “Uncle Peter’s friend Chris?”

Tom nods at her. “Yeah, you remember him? He’s in town for the weekend and thought he might stop by to see you two. But I didn’t want to spring it on you. I know it might call up some bad memories.”

Cora shrugs. “I don’t care,” she says, and goes back to her homework.

“Derek?” Tom prompts, seeing that the other boy is very still.

“Argent?” Derek says. “His name is Chris Argent?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, figuring that Derek is trying to place him in some memory. “He and your uncle were . . . actually I’m not really sure what they were. But they were on friendly terms, and Chris wanted to check up on you.” He’s watching Derek carefully. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Derek says.

“I can tell him to get lost if you want,” Tom says.

“No, it’s fine,” Derek says. “I just don’t remember him, that’s all. Maybe I will when I see him.”

With that, he turns and goes back into the kitchen. Tom frowns momentarily, but quickly clears the expression off his face when he sees the curiosity on Stiles’. Tom is well aware that his kid is a menace. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, quick to put pieces of puzzles together, and nosy as hell. He doesn’t want Stiles curious about this. He doesn’t want Stiles curious about anything.

Which is why it’s so daunting when recognition suddenly lights up Stiles’ face. “Hey! Is this the couple you were telling me about when I told you I thought I might be gay?”

Tom only barely holds back a grimace. That isn’t a conversation he remembers with much fondness; he had made a stupid comment about Stiles’ fashion sense, and then he had gotten his ass verbally kicked by his fifteen-year-old son. In the end, he had told Stiles that he was right, that in fact he had once known a couple who were about as manly as one could _get_ but still seemed very much in love. He had never expected that conversation to come back and bite him on the ass.

“Stiles,” he says carefully, “Chris is married and has a daughter. So please keep any presumptions to yourself.”

Stiles nods and says, “Yep. You got it, Dad. So if I had questions that I could only ask a gay man . . .”

“Keep them to yourself,” Tom tells him, and shakes his head. “And please, for the love of God, keep in mind that you’re only sixteen and so I absolutely do not want to hear about what kind of questions those might be.”

“Relax, Dad, there’s only one other gay kid in Beacon Hills, and Danny’s so not my type,” Stiles says, but his gaze flickers towards the kitchen.

Tom sighs. “I’m going to go clean up for dinner.” He figures that he’ll be less intimidating if he’s not in his uniform, although he’s starting to feel like he should have kept his gun on him. Stiles might think that he’s kept his enormous crush on his best friend’s brooding older brother a secret. If so, he has absolutely no idea how transparent he is. The only reason Derek himself remains oblivious is because he spends all his time with his head buried in dusty old books.

Chris shows up at six PM exactly, and although he heeded Tom’s direction not to bring wine, that didn’t stop him from bringing a pie. Tom takes it with thanks and Melissa greets him cordially. “The kids know you’re coming,” she says, and a bit of the tension eases out of Chris’ spine. But it’s not really dramatic. There’s the usual chaos of the dinner hour, kids pushing each other out of the way to wash up, Melissa shouting for them to stop horsing around and set the table. Introductions are brief and then they’re all sitting around the table. Derek’s made chili and cornbread and salad, and he doesn’t really look at Chris when the other man compliments the meal.

“So where’ve you been living, Chris?” Melissa asks. “Didn’t you move up to Montana or somewhere like that?”

“Wyoming,” Chris says. “We live on a ranch about an hour west of Gillette. Pretty much nothing in any direction for fifty miles.”

“Tom said you were thinking about moving back to Beacon Hills.”

“Yeah. I don’t mind the isolation, but it’s tough on Allison. Not another teenager in sight. And a lot of my family are still here, so we’ve talked about it, if the job pans out.” Chris butters his cornbread and changes the subject. “What’ve you been up to, Derek? Are you still in school?”

Derek glances up and then away. “Yeah,” he says. “I took last year off to study abroad, so I won’t graduate until next year.”

“Where did you go?”

“Africa,” Derek says. “Laura was doing a dig there.”

“She’s an archaeologist?” Chris says. “That’s a fascinating field.”

Derek nods. “Yeah, and I’m studying history, so it was a really great opportunity for me.”

Scott has to dive in then and talk about how weird it was that Derek was gone for a year and how he missed having his older brother around. Scott, bless his soul, which seems to be constructed out of puppies and sunshine, never misses an opportunity to make Derek feel welcome in their family. Tom exchanges a fond smile with Melissa.

“So why did you leave Beacon Hills, if your family is here?” Derek asks abruptly. “What was in Wyoming?”

Chris glances over at him, and Tom feels a sudden surge of tension that he’s not sure he completely understands. The other man answers evenly. “I got the offer to manage the ranch up there. My wife loved the landscape, so we decided to move. Allison liked it at first, but I think she’s getting lonelier as she gets older.”

“Didn’t you leave right after my family was killed?” Derek asks, and this time his voice is a blatant challenge.

Melissa reaches out and puts a hand on Derek’s forearm. “Honey, sometimes – ”

“It was bad timing,” Chris says at the same time. “I know that. But maybe I needed to get away, too, after what happened.”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, then abruptly pushes back from the table and leaves the room. A minute later, they hear the front door slam.

“Dude, what the hell?” Stiles blurts out, looking at Scott, then at Cora, like they might have some sort of explanation.

“I’m so sorry,” Melissa says to Chris. “I mean, he’s really done so well in the aftermath of what happened, but sometimes – ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chris says, shaking his head. “I understand how . . . it could be perceived as an abandonment.”

Tom sips his water and asks, quietly, “Did you go see Peter?”

“I did,” Chris says. He shakes his head and says, “It doesn’t seem real. His condition. It doesn’t seem . . . like the Peter I knew.” There’s a moment of brief silence, and then he adds, “I’d rather not talk about it, if nobody minds.”

“Of course,” Melissa says, and then hastily says, “Cora, you were talking about chemistry earlier – are you still having trouble with that teacher?”

This gets them onto the topic of school, and Scott seems curious about Allison – he thinks maybe he met her when they were younger, before the Argents moved away, but doesn’t remember – and whether Chris will be moving in time for her to start school this year. They talk about that until the chili is gone. Derek still hasn’t reappeared, Melissa apologizes for him again, and Chris leaves.

“Hey, I’m gonna go track Derek down,” Scott says, after the front door swings shut.

“Okay,” Melissa says. “Be careful,” she adds, as Scott jogs towards the back door.

“We’re going too!” Stiles declares, grabbing Cora by the wrist, and they’re gone before either parent can protest.

Tom looks pensively after them while Melissa starts clearing the table. “You think Derek’s okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Melissa says. “I just think, you know, meeting Chris really made him think about Peter a little too much. Scott will cheer him back up.” She sets down the platter and then sits down in Tom’s lap. “We could sit here and worry about him . . . or we could relish the fact that we have the house child-free for at least the next hour. And I know which I would prefer.”

Tom laughs and kisses her. “Me too.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Chris realized quickly that life with Peter Hale was a series of no-win situations. If he was a jerk to the younger teenager, Peter just smirked and made suggestive comments. If he ignored him, Peter became melodramatic and faked being forlorn. If he was nice, he, well, Chris wasn’t sure _how_ to be nice, so that wasn’t really on the table. Civility seemed to be the only option, civility and the fervent hope that Peter would get bored sooner rather than later.

Of course, there was a part of him that was amused by Peter’s persistent antics. It wasn’t as though he had a lot of friends. The need to be average had kept him out of any sports teams where he might build friendships. The fact that he couldn’t have anyone over to his house had prevented him from becoming close with anyone. Peter already knew his secret, so how dangerous could a friendship with him be?

That was what Chris thought in his weaker moments, but then he remembered that Peter had already outmaneuvered him twice, and even outmaneuvered Eloise, who was old enough to know better. Sure, he hadn’t won anything impressive with his schemes, but he _had_ won, and that was something Chris tried to keep in mind. He didn’t want anything to do with Peter Hale.

Which would have been all well and good, except the teenager was more persistent than a puppy with its favorite bone. He simply would _not_ leave Chris alone. He sat with him at lunch, volunteered to be his partner on their chemistry lab, offered to share his English notes. It was maddening. Girls started to giggle when the two of them walked by, as Peter tagged along like said unwanted puppy, and Chris knew the conclusions that they were all coming to. He wanted to throttle Peter, but he was afraid Peter would kiss him again.

Not that he thought about that. Of course not. He had done his best to put it out of his mind. And if there were nights where he was lying in bed and suddenly felt the feather-brush of Peter’s lips against his, that – that was just hormones. He could deal with that. Chris Argent was a master of self-control.

Of course, Chris Argent was also only seventeen, and so ‘dealing with that’ usually involved a hate boner and a quick jerk-off session, but, well. He did what he could.

He still couldn’t figure out what Peter’s game was. Whereas Chris was aloof and kept his distance from anyone who might come too close, Peter was the exact opposite. He was friendly with _everybody_. Within two weeks of his starting classes at Beacon Hills High, he had charmed his way into almost every social group there was. He talked science with the nerds and baseball stats with the jocks. He flirted with the cheerleaders and held doors for the losers.

After another month had gone by, Chris realized that although Peter was friendly with everybody, he was actually _friends_ with nobody. He rotated amongst the groups, kept up his ties and relationships, but nobody was invited back to his house after school. He didn’t go to the Valentine’s Day dance, didn’t hook up with anyone behind the bleachers. He surrounded himself with people, but Peter was just as alone as he was.

“Why do you do that?” he asked Peter abruptly after school, about two months after their first meeting.

Peter shrugged and said, bluntly, “Practice.”

Chris had to admit that he had a point. Being able to schmooze and blend in socially was an extremely helpful trait, especially in a hunter, who had to live a constant lie. Peter was smarter than anyone else Chris had ever met, except possibly Gerard, and he had clearly already conquered high school society.

“You’re not lonely,” he realized suddenly. “You don’t harass me because you’re _lonely_. You’re _bored_.”

“So bored,” Peter groaned. “So fucking bored, Christopher. At least antagonizing you is something to _do_.”

Chris’ jaw set in an annoyed expression, but then he figured that in a way, this was something of a compliment from Peter. Peter considered him worth the time. Peter considered him a _challenge_. It probably wasn’t something that the teenager often gave to someone else.

As the days trickled by and the weather got nicer, Peter started walking home from school with him. This really irritated Chris, because he was fairly sure that his parents wouldn’t approve of it. Eloise hadn’t told Peter to _stop_ trying to make friends with Chris, but with his true motives revealed, everyone in the pack assumed that Chris wouldn’t give him the time of day. To be fair, Chris didn’t. Peter just tagged along with him no matter what he did to discourage the younger boy.

Peter’s family lived out on the preserve, and Chris often cut through it on his way home from school. In the winter, he would take the bus, but he hated it. He hated the closeness, the noise, the smell of gasoline and packed-in teenager. For Peter, it simply wasn’t an option; no bus went anywhere near where he lived.

To walk home on street roads would take nearly an hour and a half, but if he cut through the preserve, it was more direct, and he could lope along at a higher pace. Peter usually walked the first twenty minutes with him or so, before he turned onto a different path to head out to his own house, with a cheery, “See you tomorrow, Christopher!” that set Chris’ teeth on edge.

“It must take you forever to get home,” Chris said. “Can’t someone pick you up?”

“I don’t mind,” Peter said. “I usually don’t go straight home, anyway. I like to explore the preserve. When the weather’s nice, I’ll sit down by the lake and read. Whenever I’m home, I always get roped into chores or helping make whatever health food Sean is currently obsessed with or listening to Talia as she tries desperately to keep up with Laura. I prefer to be alone most of the time.”

“You don’t get along with your siblings?” Chris asked, because that, at least, he can sympathize with. He loved his sister, but she drove him insane. Kate was a master at pranks, and even better at convincing their parents that she didn’t _mean_ for it to go like that, and Chris just took everything so _seriously_ , he should really loosen up.

“I love my siblings dearly,” Peter said. “And the further away from me they are, the better I like them.”

Chris gave a snort of laughter and kept walking.

Gradually, the walks got longer. He didn’t _mean_ for it to happen. He just had to slow down his pace to accommodate Peter, that was all. The hunter was quick when he needed to be, but he couldn’t keep up with a werewolf’s determined pace. But Peter’s words made him realize that really, he was in no hurry to get home on most days, either. No hurry to face whatever training Gerard had in mind, no hurry to figure out how Kate had booby-trapped his room.

Peter’s company, as dubious as it was, was preferable.

And he was aware that although Peter probably learned things about him and his pack, he learned about Peter, too. He learned that Patrick had forbidden Peter from carrying a gun at school, and it annoyed Peter to be unarmed except for a pair of knives (which Patrick had _also_ forbidden him to carry, but he figured he would get in less trouble for if discovered). He learned that Talia was an incredible shot with any range weapon that she could put her mind to. He learned that Patrick’s brother Andrew was afraid of closed spaces after a nasty incident when he was fifteen.

He knew about it when Peter’s younger sister Jocelyn killed her first werewolf, a beta from a rival pack that had come to town. He found out that Talia was pregnant again before anyone else in his pack knew. He learned that Peter could walk on his hands and twist himself into impossible knots.

Intellectually, Chris was aware that Peter was _allowing_ him to know all these things, that Peter had thought it all through and decided what bits of information were safe for Chris to know and which weren’t. They were guarded around each other, despite the fact that Peter didn’t look it. But some things were still real. The look of delight on Peter’s face when he told Chris that Talia was having a boy this time. The way Peter laughed when Chris growled at him. The _want_ he could sometimes smell rolling off Peter that wasn’t entirely a physical thing.

Their friendship could never be one hundred percent open, Chris thought, but it _was_ a friendship. The first one he had ever had, outside the pack.

“Hey,” Peter said, as they walked home on a Friday afternoon, “Sean’s cooking his famous eggplant loaf for dinner tonight. I’m not going within five miles of the house if I can help it. You want to hang out, maybe go get a pizza?”

Chris looked at him, frowned, and against his better judgment, said, “Sure.”

Peter smirked that annoying smirk of his and abruptly dropped his backpack on the ground. “Catch me if you can, Christopher,” he said, and took off into the preserve at a dead run. And Chris, God help his soul, sprang after him without a second thought.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying this fic so far. ^_^
> 
> Please note for those who don't follow any of my other stuff: I'll be on vacation next week, so I won't be around to post until the second week of July.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_then_

Peter and Chris were about halfway through the preserve on their walk home when Peter got the feeling that they were being followed. He glanced over his shoulder a couple times, but saw nothing. They were already walking quickly without talking much. It was raining, a cold, hard, spring rain. Chris was wearing only a hooded sweatshirt and didn’t seem to mind, but Peter was shivering despite his best efforts. After a minute, Chris saw the way he kept looking backwards, and arched his eyebrows. Peter sighed. “Okay,” he said, “how long have you known we’re being followed?”

“About eight minutes,” Chris said.

“ ‘About’ eight minutes?” Peter asked, amused. “Not nine or seven, but ‘about’ eight?”

Chris scowled at him. “Yes. About eight minutes.”

“And you were going to mention it at what point exactly?”

“I was waiting to see how long it took you to notice,” Chris said complacently. Peter gave a snort of laughter. Chris’ gaze flicked back onto the path. “Ghouls,” he finally said. “I can tell from the smell. It’s very distinctive. It’s hard to tell how many because they’re travelling in a cluster. Four or five, maybe.”

“Ghouls are resilient little fuckers,” Peter said. “You could outrun them . . .”

“But you can’t,” Chris finished for him.

Peter wrinkled his nose. “I wish I had my Desert Eagle.”

“What do you have?” Chris asked.

“Two knives and a few cherrybombs,” Peter said.

Chris picked up the pace, lengthening his stride. The closer they could get to civilization, or better yet, the Hale house, the better. Peter matched him, though Chris could hear his heartrate pick up. It wasn’t as easy for the human, but he did it without a word of complaint. Their boots squelched in the heavy mud that was collecting on the forest path. “What are they waiting for?” Chris muttered.

Peter’s gaze flicked around the forest. “It’s an ambush,” he said quietly. “There are probably a few more up ahead. They’re driving us into a trap.”

Chris’ jaw set in an unhappy expression. “If we leave the path – ”

“They’ll attack immediately,” Peter said, and gave a decisive nod. “Better four or five than eight or twelve,” he said. “Ready?”

Chris nodded, but then hesitated. “If I drew them off, you might be able to make it.”

Peter stared at him incredulously, then laughed in his face. “Fuck that,” he said, and darted into the forest.

Before he had gone more than two feet, an unearthly howl went up behind them. Chris swore and dove after him. He quickly outpaced the human, but forced himself to slow as the first ghouls caught up with them. He shifted and leapt onto the first, his jaws sinking down into its throat. They were surrounded almost immediately, and it was clear that he had underestimated the number of ghouls following them; there are at least seven, maybe more. The ones up ahead will surely have heard the racket and becoming to investigate soon.

He had never fought with a human at his back before, and as much as he sometimes loathed his sister, he would have given a lot for her presence at this particular moment. But Peter was – amazing. Chris caught a glimpse of him occasionally as he turned. He was fluid, graceful, absolutely lethal. It would be difficult to kill a ghoul with a knife; Chris knew that. They were durable, strong, and they didn’t really feel pain, not like a lot of creatures did. The only things that would put one down were a head or a heart shot, a torn throat, or cutting their legs out from underneath them.

Peter hamstrung two of them within the first minute, letting Chris finish the job for him. He took out another with a knife to the throat, and a fourth with a knife in the eye. Chris got the two that he knocked down and two more with his claws and fangs. Peter got the last one by lighting one of his cherrybombs, holding onto it as long as possible, and then throwing it in the thing’s face. It exploded mere seconds after it left his hand, and Chris felt a moment of grudging respect for Peter’s nerves of steel.

They both stood there, breathing hard for a minute. Peter was caked in mud from a nasty spill he had taken, but he didn’t seem to notice. He retrieved the knife that was still stuck in a ghoul’s eye, then looked up as Chris’ head snapped around. “More?”

“A lot more.” Chris grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet. “Run.” He pushed him in the direction of the Hale house. “Run!”

Peter bolted without hesitation. Chris loped along ahead of him, but it was clear that they weren’t going to make it. He couldn’t hear the ghouls very well over the thundering of his own pulse and the noise of the heavy rain, but they were close. He made it back to the path and then nearly fell as he tried to skid to a halt and his boots slid in the mud. There was at least a dozen angry ghouls, howling and thrashing, coming at them from that direction.

“Up!” Peter shouted, pointing to a nearby tree. Chris sprang for it, grabbed the first branch, and hauled himself up onto it. Peter jumped after him and missed it by bare inches. It was still an impressive jump for a human, but he wasn’t going to make it. He didn’t have time or space to get a running start. Chris hooked his knees over the branch and flung himself backwards, hanging upside down and grabbing Peter by both wrists. He gave a grunt of effort as he did the mother of all crunches, bringing Peter with him. Peter scrambled and grabbed the branch above them, and both of them started to climb.

Below them, the ghouls howled with frustration and rage. One of them started to climb. Peter popped out another one of his cherrybombs and tossed it down. It exploded, and they scattered.

For a few minutes, everything was calm. “How many of those do you have?” Chris asked in a low voice.

“Four left,” Peter said.

“Jesus,” Chris swore. “That won’t keep us very long.”

“No, but ghouls are stupid,” Peter said. “They won’t recognize that it’s something that might be a limited quantity. Two or three and they’ll stop. They’ll assume I’m a magic user of some kind.”

Chris nodded. The ghouls were swarming again. Peter waited until they started grabbing at the branches, and then tossed down another firework. As expected, there were no more efforts to climb the tree. But they didn’t seem to be going anywhere, either. They snarled and skulked, circling the base of the tree, occasionally looking up at the two teenagers and showing their teeth.

“So . . . we’re stuck,” Peter finally said. “All right, then.” He began to climb higher.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“I see something up here, I want to check it out,” Peter said, “and their drooling is getting on my nerves.”

Chris sighed and went up after him. ‘Something’ turned out to be the remains of an old treehouse. A lot of it had rotted away, but the platform seemed to still be sturdy enough. It beat sitting on the fragile branches, and the canopy protected them from some of the rain. “Cool, we should make this our secret clubhouse,” Peter said.

Chris gave a snort of laughter. “In what universe do we _need_ a secret clubhouse?”

“Every universe,” Peter said firmly. He settled down on the platform and began to scrape mud off his arms.

Chris’ nostrils flared as he scented blood, hot and fresh. “You’re wounded.”

“Just a few scratches,” Peter said complacently. “I think the tree did worse to me than the ghouls.” He grabbed a few leaves, wet with rain, and began to clean out the wounds on his forearms. Despite his cavalier words, they weren’t minor, and they weren’t from the tree. Those were claw marks, and they were bleeding heavily. Chris can smell the adrenaline and pain seeping off the other boy as he cleaned them out. He tugged off his sweatshirt and handed it over, since Peter’s own clothes were covered in mud. Peter nodded in thanks and folded it into a compress to try to stop the bleeding.

Finally, Chris said, “How long before your parents come looking for you?”

Peter sighed. “I’m not given to go straight home, as you well know. Even in weather like this, they won’t think my absence is odd until after the dinner hour, and they won’t get _worried_ until nightfall. Six hours, at least. Probably more before they think to beat the bushes. But you’re a good little boy. What about you?”

“I’m not sure.” Chris stared out into the rain, jaw clenched unhappily. “My mother is out of town this week. Meet and greet with a neighboring pack with Grandmother Eloise. So my father would be in charge. And . . .”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“My father likes to test me,” Chris said sourly, “and ghouls are notoriously mercenary. I don’t think this was a coincidence.”

Peter looked at him in disbelief. “You mean, I’m stuck in a tree in the rain, bleeding, because your father sicced ghouls on you?”

“I don’t _know_ that,” Chris said.

“No, but you have to be pretty damned sure or you wouldn’t have brought it up at all.” Peter pushed both his hands through his hair. “Okay then. We’ll assume that we won’t get any help from your quarter. And since my parents can’t track me down by scent and this isn’t even the path I would normally take to get home, we can’t count on a rescue until much, much later.”

“If the sun comes out tomorrow, the ghouls will leave,” Chris said. “Ghouls hate sunlight.”

“I know that, infant,” Peter said. “That’s sixteen hours away, presuming tomorrow’s a nice day, and it’s forecast to rain most of the week.”

Chris sighed and pushed a hand through his hair as water dripped onto him from the branches above. “At least we won’t die of thirst.”

“Funny, Christopher,” Peter said. He opened up his backpack and started rifling through it. He pulled out a tiny first aid kit, which had some bandages he wrapped around the wounds on his arm. Then there was an empty bottle which he left under one of the drips to fill with rain water. A sturdy bundle of nylon rope that he set aside. Then he pulled out a handful of granola bars and some beef jerky. He offered the latter to Chris and began to munch on the former himself. Then he pulled out a copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ and started reading.

“You’re just going to read?” Chris asked.

“See much else to do? We’re supposed to have up to chapter ten read by tomorrow. I’m behind.”

Chris glowered at him for a moment, but then conceded with a sigh. He didn’t see much else they could do, either. If either of them had range weapons, they could try to pick the ghouls off, but neither of them did. Even if Peter _had_ had his gun, he probably wouldn’t have had enough ammunition on him to clear the field. They couldn’t outrun the ghouls, so they would just have to wait.

The light began to die out a few hours later. Peter ate another granola bar. Chris’ stomach rumbled and he wondered if Gerard had realized yet that he hadn’t made it home.

Once it was fully dark, he was startled to feel Peter’s hand on his shoulder, and made a noise of protest as Peter crawled right into his lap. “What the _hell_ are you doing, Hale?”

“I’m cold,” Peter said. His tone was that of mock petulance, but his shivering was genuine.

“Be cold over on your side of the platform,” Chris told him.

“No, thank you,” Peter said. “I’m cold, and wet, and this is your fault, and werewolves run a higher body temperature than humans. I’m going to cuddle with you whether you like it or not. Unless you fancy the idea of explaining to my parents that you let me die of hypothermia because you couldn’t stand me touching you.”

Chris scowled, but he had to admit that Peter had a point. It had been in the fifties most of the day, and the temperature was dropping now that it was dark. Peter’s clothes were soaked through, and who knew how much blood he had lost from the wounds on his arm? Chris’ werewolf healing kept his temperature up with no problem. Peter’s human body couldn’t do the same. He supposed he should just be glad that Peter wasn’t suggesting they take their clothes off, which would be the sensible way to do it.

So despite his better judgment, he wrapped his arms around Peter and hugged him close. Peter made a pleased noise that was almost sleepy and nestled right in. Chris could feel Peter’s breath on his neck, and took a moment to pray to God that he didn’t get hard. That was the _last_ thing he needed. But he didn’t, probably because his body was preoccupied with keeping his blood heated through his entire body to combat the cold.

“Sometimes I think it must be nice, being a werewolf,” Peter remarked drowsily into Chris’ shoulder.

Chris gave a snort. “Funny to hear that coming from a hunter.”

“Don’t be an ass. You know that the Hales aren’t like that,” Peter retorted. “I don’t think werewolves are inherently evil. Just . . . driven by impulses that we don’t fully understand. Impulses that can easily turn violent. I’ve never been in favor of a werewolf registry or killing out of hand. I just believe in being cautious.”

“Fair enough,” Chris said.

Peter was quiet for a long time before he said, “I should tell my parents, you know. About where the ghouls came from.”

Chris stiffened despite himself. “You can’t,” he said, before realizing what a stupid thing to say that was.

“No?” Peter said. “You’re all right with your father ‘testing’ you with three dozen ghouls?”

Chris’ jaw set. “I would have been able to outrun them – ”

“If you weren’t with me. Yes, I know. Funny coincidence, that. Do you think Gerard doesn’t realize that I walk with you after school? Do you think he hasn’t noticed you getting home later? Do you think he doesn’t smell me on you?” Peter shook his head a little, and Chris was silent. “This was a test, all right, and I’m fairly sure you failed. You should have left me. Or at least that’s what your father undoubtedly would have preferred. What do you think he’s going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Chris admitted.

“No. Me neither. But I _do_ know that if my father knew that these ghouls had been sent after me by Gerard, he would serve up his head on a platter.”

Chris thought about what he was going to say very carefully. “We don’t know anything for sure.”

“Relax, Chris. I’m not going to tell my parents.”

Now Chris eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not?”

“No. I said I _should_. Not that I would. But I’ve thought about it a lot over the last hour and I’ve decided that I’d rather be your friend than not. And I like the thought of you feeling like you’re in my debt.”

“How very . . . altruistic of you,” Chris replied.

Peter shrugged. “Think about it, Chris. Your pack and my family need to continue to be allies if we all want to survive in Beacon Hills. What would telling my father accomplish? He would demand Gerard’s head. Whether he got it or not, nobody would go home happy. There would be anger, resentment, on both parts. Keeping quiet will keep the peace.”

“So why am I in your debt?” Chris asked.

“Oh, you’re not,” Peter said lightly, “but you’ll still feel that way, won’t you? You and your rigid code of honor.”

Chris tried not to growl at him.

Minutes ticked by and turned into hours. Peter’s shivering gradually stopped and he rested a little more heavily in Chris’ arms.

“You know, I think there’s something wrong with you,” Chris finally said.

Peter chuckled. “Only one thing?”

“I can never decide if you’re faking this whole friendship with me or not,” Chris complained.

“Well, obviously,” Peter said, rolling his eyes in the darkness. “I wouldn’t be very good at subterfuge if you were sure.”

“So is that it?” Chris asked angrily. “I’m just more practice? Another game for you to play, but a level up from our classmates?”

“Would it be so wrong if I said yes?” Peter replied. “Why do we make friends, Christopher? Why do we like certain people? Because they challenge us, they interest us, because we enjoy spending time with them. All friendship – all love – is really selfish at its root, isn’t it? Why does anyone fall in love with a person? Because that person makes them feel good. We are all creatures of base selfishness in the end. So yes, maybe I am playing a game with you. But maybe it’s because I enjoy the game, and because you’re the only person I can play it with.”

Chris groaned. “You’re hopeless, Hale.”

“At least I’m honest,” Peter said.

“Are you?” Chris asked.

“You’re a werewolf. Can’t you tell?”

“With you? Not bloody likely. You’re a liar of the first degree.”

“True.” Peter chuckled. “But not with you. You’re the only person I’m honest with. I like that. Like having a person that I can just be myself around. Sometimes I think that my father worries about me. That he’d put me in a psych ward if he knew half of what I felt about the rest of the human race. So in a way, this is a compliment of the highest order, Christopher. I let you see me in all my manipulative, egotistical, arrogant glory.”

“That’s touching, Peter. Really. I’m touched.”

“Are you?” Peter murmured. “Would you like to be?”

Chris understood in that moment that he was about to do something extremely stupid. But then he heard an owl hoot in the forest, and Peter twisted around, out of his grip. He looked up as the hunter made an answering bird call. “You guys have bird calls?” he asked.

“Would you rather I shout, ‘dinner is served’ while on a hunt?” Peter replied. “Of course we have bird calls. Your eyesight is better. Tell me how many ghouls are down there.”

Chris nodded and leaned over the edge of the platform. “Fourt – no, fifteen,” he said.

“All right.” Peter made a few answering calls. Chris could only assume he was relaying their position and the number of enemies. Bare minutes later, the gunfire started, and he had barely processed what had happened over the scent of cordite and ghoul blood when Peter was climbing down from the tree.

“Really, little brother?” Talia had a double-barrel shotgun and a gigantic smirk. “They treed you?”

“All in a day’s work,” Peter replied, unbothered. “I _did_ kill several of them, as did Chris, of course.”

Chris, who had been holed up on the platform pretending he wasn’t there, sighed and began down. He exchanged a nod with Patrick and Talia. “You all right?” Patrick asked gruffly.

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

“He’s really quite handy in a pinch,” Peter chimed in.

Patrick nodded and looked at Peter, taking his arm and examining the bandages. He heaved a sigh. “Talia, take your brother home. Call Alan, make sure he’s seen to.” He jerked his chin and said, “Chris, I’ll walk you back to your place.”

“Thank you,” Chris said again, wishing that he could just go alone.

At least Patrick doesn’t subject him to whatever his idea of conversation is. The hunter walked in silence, using a powerful lantern to light their way, although Chris could see fine. Once they got off the preserve and back onto a side street, he stopped and said, “You’ll be all right from here?”

“Yes, sir,” Chris said, incredibly grateful that the hunter wasn’t going to walk him the entire way. If he stopped and degraded himself by rolling in some mud, it’ll get the smell of Peter Hale that was clinging all over him to wear away some. Then Gerard won’t be able to tell he spent the last seven hours with the other teenager, and certainly didn’t spend any of those hours cuddling with him.

“Give your father my regards,” Patrick said, and turned and walked back into the preserve. At that moment, Chris realized that the reason Peter wasn’t going to tell his father about the ghouls was because his father certainly already knew. Peter’s intelligence hadn’t sprung up from a hole in the ground. His father might not be as book smart, might not be as quick, but he also had almost forty years of experience on Peter. Patrick Hale knew exactly why the ghouls had attacked them in the woods – but to preserve the peace, he was going to keep quiet about it.

For now.

Chris sighed and turned towards home. He rubbed himself down with some mud and let himself in through the compound’s side gate. Nobody was there to greet him. There was no uproar over how late he was getting home. Nobody noticed him at all as he let himself into the house. The precaution of the mud was completely unnecessary. He threw his clothes in the washer and got into the shower without exchanging words with anybody.

The house always felt empty while his mother was gone. Colder.

He took a long, hot shower and crawled underneath the blankets. Despite everything that had happened and the way their fragile truce had been threatened, he fell asleep remembering that one touch of Peter’s lips on his own, the day Peter had first come to their den.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

It’s not hard to figure out where Derek’s going to go, because he always goes out to the preserve when he’s upset, so the three teenagers start down the worn forest path that starts outside the McCall house and ends by the stream that runs through the preserve. They walk in silence for the first minute, but silence is never really a long-term option when Stiles is involved, and a bare minute later he says, “So was your Uncle Peter really dating Mr. Argent?”

Cora glances over at him and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I mean . . . don’t get me wrong, I really love my Uncle Peter, but he wasn’t around as much as Aunt Jocelyn or Uncle Sean. He traveled a lot for work. We could go months without even hearing from him. He was the fun, irresponsible uncle. I mean, he wasn’t married, but if they were a couple, I sure never heard about it.”

“Well, that might make sense,” Scott says, his brow furrowed with anxiety. “I mean, if Mr. Argent is, you know, in the closet.”

“Honestly I don’t remember hearing Uncle Peter even talk about Chris very much,” Cora says. “If he came up, it was usually my mom. She would sometimes ask Uncle Peter things like, ‘have you seen Chris since you got into town’ or ‘have you had a chance to ask Chris about such-and-such’.”

“Weird,” Scott says, and shrugs. “Wonder why Derek got so upset.”

It’s a rhetorical question and it’s obvious that he doesn’t expect an answer. Sometimes Derek just gets upset. Sometimes Cora does, too. A lot of the time there isn’t any reason. It’s been six years since their family was killed, and although they’re doing well, there’s always going to be a certain amount of backlash.

Stiles can vividly remember the day his father had sat down with him after school. He remembers how tired and upset his father looked that day, drawn and pale. He hadn’t looked quite that bad since his mother had died three years prior. “A friend of mine died in an accident today,” his father had said, “and we’re going to let her daughter stay with us until she’s got a permanent place to live.”

That was fine by Stiles. He had never had many friends, and after his mother had died, loneliness had been a constant. Scott was likewise thrilled to get a big brother, even if it was only supposed to be temporary. His father had only left the year before.

Not that it had been all roses at the beginning. Anything but. Derek barely spoke the entire first year he lived with the McCall family. He spent almost all his time desperately helping out around the house, and when he wasn’t doing that, he worked out. He would go running or do push-ups until he literally passed out from exhaustion. Nobody was sure what to make of it. It was as if he were training to go back in time and fight off the animals that had killed his family.

Stiles could understand that, at least on an intellectual level. He doesn’t have all the details about what happened to the Hale family, but, well, he’s nosy even on a good day. He knows that Derek and Cora were hiding in some sort of closet when it went down. He guesses that after someone hides in a closet and listens to their family get murdered, they’re entitled to a hell of a lot of issues afterwards.

Where Derek was grief stricken, Cora was angry. She got in fights at school, went into rages where she broke dishes or punched holes in walls. Every time Tom tried to talk to her about it, she screamed at him about how he couldn’t tell her what to do because he wasn’t her mother, her mother was dead. At night, she had screaming nightmares and would sob for hours.

She refused to let Stiles’ father comfort her, so it fell to Stiles to do it instead. Tom hated to put that onto his eleven-year-old son, but Stiles swore he didn’t mind, that he wanted to help. He moved all his stuff into Cora’s room so he could be there at night. At least half the time, Tom woke up in the morning to find them sharing a bed. They were young enough that it wasn’t weird, not yet.

Gradually, things settled down. Derek began to spend more time reading and less time kickboxing. He never did enroll back in high school – he couldn’t stand the way people looked at him, he said – so Melissa helped him get his GED and he applied to the local college. Cora stopped getting into fights and let Tom pester her to brush her teeth and go to bed on time. She took up martial arts and gymnastics to help channel her energy, and was quite good at both. She had a line of trophies and ribbons, and hung each one in Peter’s hospital room, so he could see that she was doing well.

She still has nightmares, and Stiles still sleeps in her room sometimes, although they no longer share a bed. He does this partly for his own benefit.

Cora talks in her sleep.

She would cry sometimes, begging whoever had killed her family to spare them. Sometimes what she said didn’t make sense. She talked on and on about silver wolves. Stiles could see where the wolves came from, that’s what everyone thought had attacked the Hale family, but why _silver_ wolves? It’s a puzzle he’s never quite worked out.

And there is a puzzle; Stiles is sure of that. One night when he was fifteen, he had come downstairs and found his father sitting with a glass of whiskey and a stack of files. He didn’t want to talk about it at first, but Stiles made patient noises and plied him with alcohol until his father admitted that he had long suspected whatever had happened to the Hale family hadn’t been a random, isolated incident. That there was someone behind it.

The next day, he refused to talk about it, and told Stiles to keep his mouth shut. They didn’t have evidence, and saying anything would just upset Derek and Cora. Stiles nodded and agreed. But like his father, he started to put pieces together. He wrote down everything Cora said while she was asleep, whether it was something mundane like blood and screams, or strange like ‘the perimeter security has been breached’.

Of course, it wasn’t an entirely selfless gesture, or brought about by his desire to succeed in law enforcement. He has a recurring fantasy where he brings the killers to justice and then Derek looks at him and says, ‘I never thought this would happen’ and calls Stiles amazing and kisses him. Stiles thinks about that a _lot_.

He’s aware that his crush on Derek is, well, obvious. Subtlety has never been his forte. Scott thinks that Derek would totally go for it if he ever got his nose out of the books he’s always immersed in. Cora thinks it’s gross, but it’s her older brother; she’s required to think that. Derek himself is completely clueless.

Really, it’s all Laura’s fault. Stiles is one hundred percent content to blame this on her. She’s the one who invited Derek to that year in Africa.

Before that, Derek had been, well. _Derek_. His best friend’s killjoy older brother. He wore bulky sweatshirts and loose jeans that hid his enormous muscles. He was pale and shaved every day and his hair was a mop that had very little attention paid to it. Then Laura had said, ‘you should come to Africa with me, li’l bro’ and Derek had said, ‘sure, I guess’.

The first picture they had received from Laura had kicked Stiles into the last stages of puberty in high gear. He was tanned, hair cut shorter, three days of stubble on his chin, wearing a white V-neck shirt that displayed all his glorious physique. Stiles had stared at that picture for _hours_ , discovering for the first time the fact that he really, really liked boys. He liked girls, too; they were softer and had pretty hair and smelled nice. But that picture of Derek kept him up at night, in more ways than one.

When he had finally come home at the end of that summer, Stiles had met him at Scott’s house and just tried not to get drool on his shirt. He didn’t think it was possible, but Derek had gotten even _more_ attractive in the intervening nine months.

He thought he was doing pretty well, too. I mean, he had been fourteen when Derek had left. He was fifteen now, to Derek’s twenty, that was . . . not too bad, right? He had grown over four inches and his eyes were now at Derek’s chin level. He wasn’t just a _kid_ anymore. He might not be grown up yet but the shadow of the man he would become was there, in his hands and his mouth.

Not that Derek had seemed to notice. He had blinked at Stiles twice like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Stiles had cleared his throat and said, “Hey, uh, it’s Stiles. You, uh, you remember me?”

The look of confusion had turned into that dry exasperation. “I was gone a year, not a century,” Derek had said. “Yes, I remember you.”

“Oh, uh. Good,” Stiles had said. He hadn’t been sure what else to say, and then Derek had given him this lopsided half-smile and Stiles melted into a puddle of goo all over the floor. He had jerked off to the memory of that smile for _weeks_ , and still did, on occasion.

So one of these days, he swears, he’s going to solve the mystery of the attack on the Hale family and figure out why Cora talks about silver in her sleep so much and he’s going to win Derek’s heart and everything’s going to be amazing. It’s a five-year-plan, but that’s better than no plan at all.

None of which is particularly relevant at the moment because they’ve just rounded a bend in the path and found Derek sitting on a fallen tree, knees dragged up to his chest. Stiles hangs back a little, because he’s never sure how to approach Derek at times like this. Scott always tries to talk to him about, but Stiles isn’t good at shit like that. His attempts at sympathy come off sounding lame and awkward. Cora hugs him, but Stiles doesn’t dare try do that.

So he stays in the background while Cora embraces her brother and Scott sits down on the tree next to him. “What’s wrong?” Scott asks.

“Nothing I want to talk about,” Derek finally says.

Scott picks up a stick and draws in the dirt with it for a minute. “They probably won’t even wind up moving back here,” he says. “I mean, they could move anywhere, right?”

“No, they’ll move here,” Derek says flatly. “Their family is still here. The Argents have lived in Beacon Hills for generations.”

“Oh,” Scott says. He claps Derek on the back. “Well, we’ll deal with it, right? C’mon, it’s cold out. Let’s go back to the house. I bet we can get Mom to let us have brownies for dessert.”

Derek huffs, but then looks at Scott’s earnest, hopeful face, and gives a reluctant smile. “Yeah, okay,” he says, standing up. Cora gives him another hug, and he hugs her back tightly, picking her up a little so her feet leave the ground. Then the three of them head back towards the house.

“Hey, Stiles, buddy, you coming?” Scott says.

Stiles jerks back to attention. “What? Oh. Yeah,” he says, and trots after them. For a minute he had forgotten all about his crush on Derek. It had just occurred to him, in a flash of blinding realization, that Argent was French for ‘silver’.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in the same grade of high school because, uh - hey, look over there! *runs*

_now_

 

Derek glances up as there’s a brief knock on his bedroom door, which is partially open, and then Melissa pokes her head inside. “Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Derek turns his attention back to his book so he doesn’t have to look at her. “Am I in trouble?”

“Derek, honey, you’re twenty-one years old,” Melissa says, with an amused smile. “I’m not going to ground you. But no, I’m not angry. I just want to be sure that you’re okay.”

Derek hasn’t been okay in a long time, but he isn’t about to say that to Melissa. He’s one hundred percent positive that she and Scott are the only reason he’s anywhere near as functional as he is. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry for storming out like that. I just . . . I don’t know why I got upset like that.”

It’s a complete lie. He knows exactly why he was upset. Knew it from the moment that Tom had told him who would be coming to join them for dinner.

He knows the name Argent. He still hears it in his dreams almost every night.

It’s been a difficult journey, learning how to pretend that he’s okay. Learning how to fool everyone around him. He does it so well that sometimes he even fools himself. There are days, sometimes even weeks, when he doesn’t think about the attack that killed the rest of his family. But it always passes. Afterwards, it feels like he was dreaming, only he woke up to the nightmare.

He’s never told anyone, not a single, solitary soul, about Kate. About the gorgeous blonde he met when she was working as a substitute teacher at his school. About the way he had thought keeping their relationship secret was ‘romantic’, because she could get in trouble. “I know you’re not too young,” Kate had told him. “You’re perfect. But not everyone would see it that way.”

So he had told no one. Even knowing about the turmoil in the local pack, the unstable dynamics that had resulted from Eloise Argent’s death and Mirielle’s taking up her mantle as alpha, he never suspected that Kate wanted him for any nefarious reason. She laughed at his jokes and let him be on top in the bedroom and convinced him that she was weak and helpless. So it hadn’t seemed like a big deal if she had watched him punch in the combination to their security gate a few times. What was the harm in that? It wasn’t like she had _asked_ him for it. She just liked to walk him home after their late-night trysts, that was all.

It hadn’t even sunk in when his family had been murdered, when he had been crouched in the panic room with Cora sobbing in his arms. He figured the werewolves had just broken down the fence somehow. Even knowing that the fence had been intact didn’t make him put two and two together. It wasn’t until days later, when he tried to call Kate and found that her number had been disconnected, that he had made the connection.

One time when he was seventeen, he had tried to tell his therapist. But as soon as he had said, “it was my fault”, she started talking about survivor’s guilt, and the rest of the story had frozen in his throat. That was the one and only time he had thought about saying something. Better to let it stay buried.

He wondered sometimes if Laura knew, if she had put together that he had never mentioned his girlfriend in the aftermath of what had happened to their family. But she had bigger things to worry about. All of them did.

There were no hunters in Beacon Hills anymore. A couple of nomadic ones came through every now and again to take care of a rogue omega, but no one wanted to step on the Argents’ toes. Gerard had made it clear that this was his territory now, and the agreement that the Argent family had had with the Hales was not going to be duplicated.

Before the attack, Laura had been gearing up to be one of the best hunters of the new generation. Cora was good, too, even at eleven years old. Derek was less interested. He liked his books and his history, and if he kept up on the physical requirements of his family, that was only because his mother pestered him. What had happened had put Laura off of it completely. She had gone to college, found a passion for old relics, and never looked back.

Cora still talked about it sometimes, late at night when no one could hear. About how gymnastics and martial arts would help prepare her, about who amongst their mother’s old hunting buddies might be willing to take her on as an apprentice when she was eighteen. She even talked about finding her father, something Derek doubted would ever come to fruition.

Talia had been a wonderful mother: generous and warm, stern when she needed to be, endlessly loving and patient. But she had no interest in a husband, no interest in sharing and compromising with another adult. She had told all three children the same thing about their father: “I wanted children. A friend did me a favor.” It had been something of a game when they were younger, guessing who of the hunters who stopped by might be their father, comparing things like their ears and facial structure to figure out if they even had the _same_ father (Derek was pretty sure they didn’t). But they were hardly harmed by it. They had no shortage of male role models. Talia’s uncle Andrew lived with them, as did Andrew’s son Sean. Sean was a surrogate father to all of them, more stern than Talia and with less of a sense of humor, but always ready to teach them something new or answer their questions.

When the Hales had died, Peter being the lone exception, Derek knows that there was at least a cursory search for any paternal relatives who might want to take them. It had turned up nothing. Talia had never kept any records of who had fathered her children, and Peter hadn’t known, so she had taken that information with her to the grave.

In truth, Derek was much happier that way. Whoever their father (fathers) was (were), he was undoubtedly a hunter, and he didn’t want to go live with any hunter. He much preferred Melissa and Scott, who at least he knew peripherally, since Talia had been friends with Melissa and Claudia, Stiles’ mother, and they had spent some time together as children.

While Laura abandoned hunting completely and Cora seized on it, Derek took another road. Within six months of the attack, he was more physically fit than he had ever been before, but that was just a side effect of how often he worked out when he couldn’t sleep, which was basically always. He hated the idea of violence, and he didn’t think he would ever be the hunter that Cora would be, but his mother had died trying to keep Beacon Hills safe. She had died because of a mistake that he had made. And that meant he had to carry on her legacy, no matter what.

Books had always been his solace, and he embraced them more and more as the days passed. He had inherited their vast library, and he read about all the different creatures that were drawn to Beacon Hills. He studied their patterns and habits. And gradually, he started to put things together. He mapped out the territory of all the different monsters that lurked in Beacon Hills. He read about disappearances or murders in the news and deduced who or what had been responsible. Then he sent out e-mails to Talia’s old friends.

Slowly, he built up a network. He made more friends through the ones he already knew. Hunters who had known or worked with Peter or Sean e-mailed him to introduce themselves. Sometimes they mentioned that they were glad Beacon Hills was in good hands. Derek wanted to respond to those emails to tell them how wrong they were, but he couldn’t. Nobody could ever know that he was responsible for what had happened to his family. It was the only way he could live a life that his mother would be proud of.

“ – Derek? Earth to Derek?” Melissa says jokingly, and Derek startles. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . .” Derek rubs both hands over his face. “Lost in thought, I guess.” He looks up at her, suddenly feeling fifteen again, remembering the long days after the attack and how endlessly patient and kind she had been. He manages to muster up a smile for her. “Thanks for checking on me. I’ve got a lot of reading to do, so . . .”

Melissa can take a cue. “Okay, honey. Let me know if you need anything.”

As soon as she’s gone, Derek closes the door and then flops onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Chris Argent, back in town. Does it mean anything? Is it indicative of some larger shift in the Argent pack politics? Or is he telling the truth, and just trying to do what’s best for his daughter? Over the years, Derek has put together most of what had happened in the days leading up to the attack. Chris hadn’t been involved, he was sure of that. Gerard had never gotten along with his son, and Chris had in fact been closer to the Hales than he had to his own family, by the time the attack had happened.

It could mean nothing. But he resolves that he’ll keep an extra eye out. Just to be safe.

It’s what his mother would have wanted.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Chris was never really sure how it happened afterwards, from how he went to being annoyed and surly while Peter tagged along after him to actually welcoming his presence. Sometimes he thought it was a self-defense mechanism. He sure as hell couldn’t get rid of Peter, so he might as well learn to enjoy himself.

Peter flitted around the different social groups, but by their senior year, he had settled into some actual friendships, and somehow taken Chris with him. Chris had never had friends before. There were too many secrets, it was too dangerous. “We isolate ourselves for a reason” was basically the pack motto. It was hard for a child to understand that, which was why he had been home-schooled until high school. By then, his concept of social interaction had been so stunted that he wouldn’t have been able to make friends if he tried.

Not that he needed to. Not with Peter in his life. He walked into the cafeteria and Peter shouted, “Hey, Chris, over here!” and he just went and sat with whoever Peter was sitting with that day. Nobody really liked him or invited him, but they tolerated him. It was commonly accepted that Peter had a gigantic crush on Chris and was trying to date him, but people didn’t really talk about it. Once someone called Peter a faggot, and Peter just laughed and took a bow. A week later someone called Chris queer, and that time Peter hadn’t laughed. Chris never found out what Peter did, but that particular classmate left their school a week later, never to return.

As the months of their junior year wore on, Peter gradually drifted away from some of the social groups he had charmed his way into. It wasn’t that he snubbed them; he just didn’t go out of his way to associate with them anymore. And Chris, who was learning to read Peter, could recognize the subtle facial tics and mine his tone for meaning. He knew that Peter thought the jocks were insufferable, and he had a tendency to use long words and convoluted phrases around them, to insult them without their realizing it. He rolled his eyes at the melodrama of the art clique but didn’t actively disparage them. The nerds, he just left alone.

No, Peter found the outliers. The people who either blended into many groups, or simply didn’t participate in any of them. People like Tom Stilinski, who could have been included in the jock clique because of his skill at lacrosse, but shunned their company because he obviously thought they were assholes. Tom was always a little awkward in social situations, like he sometimes couldn’t believe the sheer quantity of bullshit that being in high school society required.

Then there was Melissa Delgado, who was too smart to put up with the cheerleaders, too pretty to be welcomed by the nerds, and too sensible to fit in with the art clique. She was like Tom in that she tolerated zero bullshit, and once slapped a guy across the face for refusing to take no for an answer.  She was inseparable from best friend, Claudia Kaczmarek. Claudia was, simply put, the kindest person that Chris had ever met. She nursed birds with broken wings back to health, passed around get-well cards when a teacher was sick, brought cookies in every Thursday and gave them to anyone who wanted them.

They had some passing acquaintance with other loners, like Marin Deaton, whose older brother was a friend of Talia’s, and Bobby Finstock, who Chris thought was frankly insane. Then they had their enemies – Jack Whittemore ruled the jock roost and was an insufferable prick, Adrian Harris was a smug asshole who thought he was better than everyone, Rafael McCall was someone that Peter obviously spent a lot of time thinking about kicking in the crotch.

But these were normal enemies. High school rivalries that would come to nothing and be forgotten as soon as the last bell rang. Chris thought it was a little . . . nice. Having an enemy that couldn’t actually harm him.

Tom and Claudia started dating in the middle of their senior year (‘took you long enough’ was Peter’s opinion, and Chris had to admit he thought Peter was right), and when prom rolled around, Peter nominated them for king and queen. Chris thought that Tom was going to leap across the table and choke Peter with his sandwich for that. “It’s only to give Whittemore some competition,” Peter said, laughing, and Claudia just blushed and said that it was nice of Peter to think of them.

Peter surprised everyone by asking Marin to go to the prom with him, and she said yes. Feeling left out and inexplicably stung, Chris asked Melissa. “Sorry, I uh, I already have a date,” Melissa said, and Chris felt stupid and apologized.

“She’s going with Rafael,” Tom said, rolling his eyes.

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Whatever for?”

“I keep telling you guys that he isn’t that bad,” Melissa said, laughing. “Anyway, he asked me. Maybe I can slap some sense into him.”

Chris doubted it, but it wasn’t like it was any of his business. There wasn’t anyone else he could ask, and he really wasn’t thrilled with the idea of going alone, so he decided he simply wouldn’t go at all. It was just a dance. What did it matter?

Which was why he was _very_ surprised when the doorbell rang on the evening of the prom and Kate came up to his room, laughing. “Your _date_ is here,” she said, chortling.

“Very funny,” Chris grumbled, swatting at her.

“Not a joke!” She danced out of his reach and then out of the room.

Frowning, Chris hauled himself off the bed and went downstairs to find Peter in the foyer of the gigantic house, perusing a painting. He was dressed in a tuxedo and his hair was slicked back and he looked – _good_. Chris swallowed his drool and growled at Peter. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking you up for the prom, _obviously_ ,” Peter said, with that innocent smile of his that set Chris’ teeth on edge and simultaneously made him want to sink those teeth against Peter’s mouth. “I figured you wouldn’t be dressed, so I brought you a suit. C’mon. Chop chop.”

“How do you even know what size suit I wear?” Chris asked, as if this was the relevant question.

“I stole some of your clothes,” Peter said complacently.

“Of course you did.” Chris growled again. “I’m not going to the prom with you, Peter. Besides, didn’t you ask Marin?”

Peter looked honestly surprised. “Only because I couldn’t ask you,” he said. “Marin’s a lesbian, you know. She’s not at all interested. We agreed we would go together publicly so we could each take our real dates privately.”

“You might have mentioned that to the guy you consider your _real date_ ,” Chris said through clenched teeth.

Peter just laughed at him. “Are you joking? You would’ve beaten the shit out of me. Come on, now.” He wiggled the garment bag at Chris. “Go get dressed. It’s going to be fun.”

“You shouldn’t even be here,” Chris protested.

“Well, if you would just go get dressed, we could leave,” Peter said.

“I’m not going to the God damned prom with you, Hale.”

Peter studied him for a few long moments before he said, “Suit yourself – no pun intended. I’ll just leave this here.” He put the bag over the railing of the staircase. “Just remember, Christopher, you only have one life to live. If you keep letting opportunities pass you by, you’re going to regret it later.”

With that, he turned and left the house. Chris stared at the garment bag for several minutes. He wasn’t going to do it. He _wasn’t_. He had no reason to go to that stupid prom. Those people weren’t his friends, they weren’t his _pack_. They were just . . . people he knew. After graduation in a few weeks, he probably wouldn’t even see them again.

He stood there in the hallway and was filled with sudden, aching loneliness. He had his pack, yes. But none of them made him feel like Peter did – or even Melissa and Tom and the others. None of them made him feel _good_. Eloise was the only one who cared about him at all, and she could barely spare five minutes a week for him, she was so busy. Kate tormented him in a thousand little ways. Gerard never looked at him without that faint glower of disappointment, of ‘I don’t know what Eloise sees in you’, and he never missed an opportunity to praise his daughter in front of Chris, put him below her in every conceivable way. His mother Mirielle, well, she obviously had no idea what to do with a son. She flitted in and out of his life and occasionally gave him a pat on the head, oblivious to how desperate he was to have her affection.

“Fuck it,” he finally growled. He would only have one prom. Peter was right. If he didn’t go, he would wish later that he had. He threw on the suit – it was a little loose in the shoulders but other than that, almost perfectly tailored – and stormed out of the house.

The dance was in full swing when he got there. He stood just inside for a minute, feeling painfully awkward, waiting for Peter to come embarrass him. But instead Melissa saw him, waved and smiled and gestured until he made his way over to their table. “Peter swore you were coming,” she said, laughing, “but we were all starting to think he was wrong for once.”

“Peter knows me better than I know myself,” Chris said, and then winced, because why in the hell had he said _that_? Melissa just smiled knowingly at him. Chris sighed and got himself some punch. Tom and Claudia were glued together on the dance floor. Peter was dancing with Marin, but Chris saw the younger teen glance over at him and give him a wicked smile that made his blood start pounding in his veins. To distract himself, he asked, “Where’s Rafael?”

“Oh, he was being a jerk so I told him to take a hike,” Melissa said. “You want to dance?”

“Sure,” Chris said.

In a way, making friends with other people had probably saved his life. Having them as a buffer between himself and Peter a lot of the time kept Gerard from figuring out exactly how much time Chris spent with the hunter. Sure, they still spent time together after school – Peter had rebuilt that treehouse with the help of his uncle Andrew and cousin Sean and deemed it their ‘clubhouse’ despite all reason or sanity – but Chris could roll around in the dirt or grass afterwards and rub Peter’s scent off of him.

He wasn’t sure what Gerard would do if he figured out what was happening between Chris and Peter. To be fair, sometimes Chris wasn’t even sure what that was. But he was sure that it was something, and equally sure that Gerard wouldn’t like it.

So he danced with Melissa and Claudia and drank punch and started to relax and even enjoy himself after a while. He avoided Peter, and Peter let him, but never missed an opportunity to give him that sideways smile.

At eleven, Tom had his arm around Claudia’s waist, and said to the others, “I’m ready for the after-party, how about you guys?”

“Count me in!” Melissa said, grinning at her friends.

“After-party?” Chris asked.

“My place,” Peter said, with that look of innocence. “My parents agreed to let me have some people come over. You’re coming, right?”

What in the hell could he possibly say to that? There was no way that he could go to the Hale house without Gerard finding out about it. But if he said no, he’d have to come up with some excuse not to go, and he had nothing. So he nodded reluctantly and said, “Sure, for a little while, I guess.”

The after-party, he found, was far better than the prom. The five of them laid around the Hale house’s gigantic rec room, listened to records, drank cheap booze, ate amazing amounts of pizza. Tom and Claudia cuddled incessantly. Melissa threw popcorn at them and Peter asked to be best man at their wedding. They played ‘I’ve Never’ and ‘Truth or Dare’. Chris wasn’t sure how to deal with that. If he said truth, someone would undoubtedly ask him something he couldn’t answer. If he said dare, someone would undoubtedly dare him to kiss Peter. He said dare anyway, and surprisingly, nobody did. He realized, somewhat belatedly, that the others thought he was struggling with his sexuality, trying to convince himself he was straight, and that they were trying not to make him uncomfortable with it.

Peter said truth at least fifty percent of the time and proceeded to lie his lying ass off, and Chris shook his head, disappointed, while the others just laughed because they knew Peter well enough to know he was a liar through and through. Claudia called him a ‘storyteller’ sometimes, and to be fair that was a reasonably accurate description of what Peter did.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Chris slipped away. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t accept the easy camaraderie and friendship the others were offering.

Patrick Hale found him on the back porch about ten minutes later, staring off into the dark forest. “Here,” he said, and handed Chris a little vial.

“What’s that?” Chris asked, accepting it.

“Perfume. It’ll mess up your pack’s sense of smell. They won’t realize you were here.”

Chris clenched his fist around the little vial and then tucked it away into the pocket of his suit jacket. Of course, Peter would have known they had such a thing, that bringing Chris here posed no danger. After a few moments, he looked over at Patrick and said, “Why are you letting your son do this?”

Patrick let out a slow breath. “Because I believe in peace, Chris. I think it can be achieved. Real peace, not this sort of truce which is just each side holding a gun to the other side’s head. And I think my son and Gerard Argent’s son becoming friends is a good start.”

Chris’ jaw tightened. “Does Peter share your sentimentality?”

“No,” Patrick said, and laughed. “But you didn’t ask about Peter’s reasons. You asked about mine.” He sat down on the step next to Chris. “To be honest, Chris, my son is an enigma to me. I don’t understand why he does a lot of what he does. I’ve learned that there’s always a reason, but I’ve also learned that a lot of the time that reason is just because he likes to stir shit up and have a good time. I think Peter honestly likes you, in a way that he doesn’t really like anyone else. And I think that’s something that all of us can build off of. At least, I hope it is.”

Chris didn’t say anything in reply to that, because what could he say? He knew as well as anyone else that as long as his father existed, there would never be a real peace. Gerard wasn’t an Argent by birth, he hadn’t grown up underneath the Code, didn’t see it the same way. He looked on it like a set of annoying rules imposed by someone who didn’t understand the real world. Chris wasn’t sure if Kate’s twisted personality was because of Gerard, or whether it was all of her own. Either way, there wouldn’t be any peace, not any time soon, no matter what he and Peter were to each other.

“C’mon,” Patrick said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You don’t want Peter wondering where you are.”

“God, no,” Chris agreed, and went back inside. He slipped back into the room largely unnoticed and crashed onto a bean bag next to Melissa.

Around two AM, Chris finally begged off. Tom and Claudia had fallen asleep on the sofa. Melissa and Peter were singing loudly and somewhat drunkenly to Mariah Carey. Chris shook his head at both of them and said, “I’d better get home before my dad realizes I was out all night.”

“Sure, okay,” Peter said, and wobbled to his feet. Without hesitating or asking permission, he leaned into Chris’ personal space and kissed him. Chris went still under the onslaught. He felt like all his senses were going into overdrive. He could taste the liquor and the Doritos on Peter’s mouth, hear Melissa giggling in the background and Peter’s pulse in his throat a few inches away, smell the drifts of arousal and simple inebriated pleasure that were coming off the other teenager. But he didn’t pull back, didn’t rear away. He wanted this, and just this once, he would let himself have it.

Peter withdrew from him and laughed against his mouth. “So uptight,” he said, just underneath his breath, running his hand down Chris’ tie. “One of these days, I’m going to get you to let go, Christopher . . . and it’s going to be magnificent.”

“Are you finished?” Chris asked him, and Peter just laughed again, lifted his hands in surrender, and returned to the armchair he had been sprawled out on. Chris shook his head and left the house. He was glad that nobody had asked how he was going to get home or protest the idea of him walking. It was a beautiful summer night, and he could take care of himself.

About two blocks from home, he took out the vial of perfume. Then he hesitated. He took off his tie, which was absolutely saturated with the scent of Peter’s hands. “I’m going to regret this later,” he said to himself, but took it off and tucked it away in the pocket of his suit jacket, where it would be protected. Then he rubbed the perfume into his neck and his hands. It didn’t smell like much, wasn’t overpowering, but he gathered that that was the point. To make him smell like not much at all.

He hid the tie in the bottom of his sock drawer and fell asleep thinking about the press of Peter’s lips against his own.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a lovely weekend~

 

_now_

 

“Okay, so,” Stiles says, dropping a stack of papers down on Scott’s desk, “I’ve been doing a little research. And thinking. And the Argents are a really weird family, did you realize that? I mean, they all live together. They have like this gated compound on the north side of town. It seems almost like a cult to me. Like, in normal families, when you grow up, you move out, right? Sometimes you don’t even stay in the same city. But the Argents, when they grow up, they just move into an empty house on the compound. Isn’t that weird?”

Scott looks up from the game of Call of Duty that he’s playing. “Dude, how much Adderall have you had?”

“What? I don’t know. A lot?” Stiles picks up one of the papers and rattles it at him. “Chris Argent seems to be the first member of that family who’s moved out of state in fifty years. Fifty _years_ , Scott. That’s a long-ass time. And the Argents have been here for a long time, too. Like, the original house was built in the early 1800s. That’s before the gold rush, even.”

“Okay,” Scott says, not looking up this time. “So what?”

“So, I don’t know. Doesn’t it make you curious, at least a little?”

“I guess,” Scott says, in a tone that really means ‘no’. “Do you remember Allison at all? I keep trying to picture her face. Mom says that we played together when we were kids, like, when we were six or seven years old.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “Before my mom got sick and we used to go over to the Hale house. Try to focus, Scott.”

“I _am_ focused,” Scott says, laughing. “I’m just not focused on the same thing as you.”

“This could be important,” Stiles says.

“Why?” Scott puts down his game controller and really looks at Stiles. “Here’s what happened, okay? The Argent family is kind of weird, kind of reclusive, maybe a little bit of a cult. Sure. But they still went to high school, right? Because Mom says that she was friends with Chris and Peter Hale in school. She showed me some photos from her prom and graduation. Then the Hales died and Peter got put in the hospital and it was terrible, right? So Chris moved to get away from it. That’s all.”

“You’re no fun,” Stiles says. “Why can’t you see conspiracy everywhere, like me?”

“One of us has to keep their feet on the ground,” Scott says, still laughing at him. “Okay, but seriously. You’re being more obsessive than usual. What’s up?”

Stiles paces around for a minute. “Well, no one’s ever figured out what happened to the Hales.”

“And you think the Argents have something to do with it?”

Scott sounds skeptical, and Stiles deflates, flopping onto Scott’s bed. “Dude, I don’t know. None of it makes any sense. I’ve read through my dad’s files a hundred times. I can’t talk to Cora about it, I mean, she’s still all fucked up by it, who wouldn’t be. I know my dad doesn’t think that it was an animal attack. I thought maybe this would be a good avenue of investigation, but it’s all just more mysteries and dead ends.”

There’s a long silence while Scott thinks about this. Then he says, “You know, you could just ask Derek out.”

“What!” Stiles splutters. “No. No _way_. He thinks I’m a pain. I’ve got to do something to impress him. Then I’ll ask him out.”

This garners him another dubious look. But then Scott says, “Well, come on, let’s go practice lacrosse. Maybe if we can both make first line this year, you can show off for Derek and get his attention that way.”

“Does Derek even know what sports _are_?” Stiles asks, but he gets off Scott’s bed without further protest. “Okay, fine. Just don’t hate me when I make first line and you don’t.”

“In your dreams, asshole!” Scott says, and chases him out of the house.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Beacon Hills hasn’t changed a lot in six years. Chris would like to say that he’s happy to be back, but he’s not. Not really. He just didn’t know where else to go. He and Victoria had talked about it for a long time. His work is relatively mobile, as long as he’s within driving distance of a major city, and that’s if he goes back to his job as a security consultant. He had other options. They could go anywhere. They could find another pack willing to take them in, or even go back to Victoria’s original pack.

But in the end they went back to Beacon Hills, because there was a strange pull to it. He had lived there all his life up until his move six years ago. He had friends of a sort there. There were some members of his pack that he didn’t get along with, but some that he did. He’s been out of the game for a while, but his business had been fairly well-established there before he left.

He had originally gone down to Beacon Hills to discuss the possibility of opening his own business again with some of his contacts, and get suggestions for where he might settle, maybe network a little. But then he had found out about Peter, and everything changed.

He hadn’t told Victoria, even though he thinks he probably should. But he hadn’t missed the fact that there was a fake name on the door to Peter’s room in the nursing home. How had that happened? Peter certainly hadn’t been in any sort of shape to arrange it himself.

After some thought, he became certain that it was Tom’s doing. Tom had always been smart and a good cop. He’s much too smart to believe this bullshit about an animal attack having killed the Hales, particularly with Peter having been injured mere days later. Chris doesn’t think Tom knows what _did_ happen, but he’s obviously placed Peter into some sort of witness protection program, even in his catatonic state. He makes a mental note to thank him later.

Given that, he’s made some arrangements of his own. Working in private security has garnered him a variety of interesting contacts. A fake identity is relatively easy to obtain. He needs some information about Peter, needs to know what’s going on with him directly from the source.

His second trip to Beacon Hills after his six-year absence starts a little differently. He’s got a wife, a daughter, and a moving van. He’s gotten a house on the west side of town. Victoria expressed some concern that he’s choosing to live separately from the pack, but Chris hadn’t really talked about it. He doesn’t want to put himself underneath Gerard’s thumb again, and avoiding that is going to be difficult enough as it is.

Allison skids around the house in her socked feet, obviously excited. The idea of going to school in two days and actually being in a room full of other teenagers for the first time in her life has her over the moon. Victoria is watching her with a fond little smile on her face. Chris drops a kiss on the top of Victoria’s head and says, “I’m going to go check in with my dad. I’ll be home later tonight.”

“Okay,” Victoria says.

This isn’t something he actually has any intention of doing. He hasn’t seen his father in six years and he doesn’t want to see him now. He supposes that he’ll have to at some point. It isn’t safe being omega, but then again, it isn’t safe being in the Argent pack, either. Not for him.

He had called about a week before, after all the final arrangements had been made and the house had been bought. He called Kate, not Gerard. He’s still on somewhat decent terms with Kate, because she and Allison get along like a house on fire. They skype a lot, and Kate has come to visit them on the ranch a few times. Allison is completely oblivious to Kate’s true snake-in-the-grass nature, and as long as Kate isn’t a danger to her, Chris is content to keep it that way. He doesn’t think there’s real harm in his sister, as long as one stays on her good side.

Kate had been excited about their return to Beacon Hills, and had promised to tell Gerard and make it clear to him that Chris wasn’t planning on living on the property. Chris isn’t thrilled with the concept of making someone else do his dirty work, but Gerard’s always liked Kate better. He’ll take it better coming from her.

So he gets in his car and dials his sister, who picks up on the second ring. “Hey, we made it here,” he says. “Just finished unpacking the truck.”

“Great!” Kate says, with genuine enthusiasm. “How about I bring by some dinner?”

“Sure,” Chris says. He knows Victoria won’t want to cook. “I’ve got some errands to do, like returning the truck to the U-Haul place. See you around six?”

“Okay,” Kate says, and hangs up.

That done, Chris heads down to the nursing home. He’s a little better prepared now, and this time he actually stops at the nurse’s station to check in, which he had avoided doing last time. He picks up the clipboard and says in greeting, “Hey, I’m Chris Hardy. I’m here to visit my brother, Patrick?” He finds it amusing in a morbid sort of way that Tom had chosen that name for him. He wonders if he had done it on purpose. When it came to his own fake identity, he hadn’t bothered to change his first name. There was no reason to.

“Oh, hello,” the nurse says. “I didn’t know he had a brother. Although I suppose, the kids had to come from somewhere.”

“They aren’t mine,” Chris says. “They’re our sister’s children.” He’s thought about this, even rehearsed a little. He knows that a brother turning up in ‘Patrick’s’ life now will seem a little odd if there’s no explanation. “I just got back from having been deployed to Afghanistan for several years.” Fortunately, with his well-muscled frame and short hair, he can easily pass for a military man.

“Oh, I see,” the nurse says, brightening up. She even says, “Thank you for your service,” which frankly makes Chris feel kind of like a jerk. “He’s in room 196.”

“I was hoping to talk to his doctor?” Chris says. “Just, you know, get an update on his prognosis and everything.”

“Dr.  Namjoshi is doing afternoon rounds, but I’ll let him know that you’d like to speak to him.”

“Thanks,” Chris says, and heads down the hallway. He pauses to brace himself outside of Peter’s room. It’s virtually identical to the way it was two months ago, at his last visit. He thinks Peter is wearing a different colored sweater, but other than that, everything is the same. He draws a chair over to Peter, sits down across from him. “Hey,” he says, reaching out to take one of Peter’s hands in his own. Peter doesn’t react at all. Chris just holds it for a minute, rubbing his thumb over the rough, scarred skin of Peter’s knuckles.

He’s so lost in thought that he startles when the doctor comes in, and stands up to shake his hand and introduce himself as Chris Hardy, recently from Afghanistan. The doctor doesn’t seem to care where he’s been. “So . . . how is he?” Chris asks, feeling awkward.

“Physically, he’s recovered well,” the doctor says. “Of course, it helps that he was in very good condition when he had the accident, no chronic health problems or anything like that. We do have him in physical therapy to prevent muscle atrophy. Walks around the complex daily, et cetera.”

Chris braces himself and says. “And . . . mentally?”

Dr. Namjoshi keeps the same pleasant demeanor. “Neurologically, he’s intact. Reflexes are good. He opens his eyes spontaneously, and sometimes looks around, like if he hears an unusual noise. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t since he got here. But he does seem to understand simple commands. Repetition helps. For example, he knows now that when Carol comes in and says, ‘time for a walk’, he stands up. But he doesn’t put his shoes on by himself. More complex tasks still seem beyond him.”

“What . . . what’s the cause of all this?” Chris asks. “Was there some sort of brain injury?”

There’s a pause. Dr. Namjoshi says, “To be honest, Mr. Hardy, we suspect it’s psychological. An extreme response to the trauma and pain of the accident.”

Chris studies Peter’s slack expression as he stares out the window. “It seems so unlike him.”

“His injuries were quite severe,” Namjoshi says. “Burns are a particularly agonizing kind of injury with a prolonged recovery period. Is it possible that there’s some kind of brain injury that we missed? I suppose so. But he had a very extensive evaluation by neurology after he arrived here, as well as yearly re-evaluations, and no cause has been found.”

Chris rubs a hand over his hair and says. “I’ve . . . been thinking about his long-term care. Now that I’m back. I hate the idea of him being alone all the time.”

“You mean, you’re considering taking him?” Dr. Namjoshi asks.

Chris nods. He’s not sure what in God’s name he wants to do about Peter long-term, but he does hate the idea of him rotting away in a nursing home. He can’t imagine how that would go over Victoria. ‘Hey, honey, remember my dead boyfriend? Well, he’s not dead, just catatonic, and I want him to come live with us.’ She’s been very supportive of his choices over the years, but he’s fairly sure there’s a line somewhere. He can’t imagine what _Peter_ would have thought of it, either. He suspects that the man would have slapped him across the face at the mere concept of being taken care of.

But he wants his options open. Whoever did this to Peter is still out there, somewhere. If Peter needs a safe place to go, he wants the groundwork laid out.

Dr. Namjoshi is studying him carefully. He gestures to Chris’ left hand and says, “I see you’re married. Any kids?”

“Yeah. A daughter, sixteen.”

“Have you talked about this with them?”

“Not yet, no.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I own my own private security firm. Some of it’s fieldwork, some of it I do out my house.”

Namjoshi nods. “Let me be perfectly honest with you, Chris. Taking in a severely disabled family member can be extremely stressful. I applaud your willingness to consider it. But I would urge you to think about it carefully. Patrick needs a lot of care. He needs to be fed, bathed, clothed. He’s compliant with those things but doesn’t initiate. His injuries need long-term treatment. There’s medicated lotion that needs to be applied to all his scarred skin daily. He needs to be kept active, but his activity level must be monitored carefully because a large number of his sweat glands were destroyed.” He spreads his hands and says, “I don’t want to discourage you, if you really want to do this. I just want you to consider the amount of work it would be. We all want what’s best for him.”

Chris lets out a breath and nods. “Thanks. I’ll think about it. And talk to my wife.”

“Let me give you my card, so you can call my office if you have any questions,” the doctor says. Chris takes the card and tucks it away, shakes his hand again, and thanks him as he leaves Peter’s room. He studies Peter, thinking it can’t be possible that he had sat that entire time, letting them talk about him, without so much as a twitch. But he did. It’s so foreign to everything he remembers about Peter that it’s causing massive cognitive dissonance.

He rubs his hands over his face. He needs to get home to his wife and his daughter. There’s nothing he can do for Peter, not right now. He reaches out and takes Peter’s hand in his own, giving them a squeeze. “I’ll come visit again,” he says. “Soon. I promise.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Scott is restringing his lacrosse stick in preparation for the next day’s try-outs when he hears a noise outside his window. He’s considering getting his baseball bat or his brother as he pokes his head out onto their porch, and then nearly jumps twenty feet in the air when he sees Stiles. “What are you doing here?” he hisses. “I almost brained you.”

“Please,” Stiles says, clearly unconcerned. “Dad got a call a little while ago about a body in the woods.”

“Like a dead body?” Scott asks.

Stiles gives an exaggerated eye roll. “No, a body of water. Yes, dumbass, a dead body!”

Somehow, and later Scott isn’t really sure how, Stiles talks him into going into the forest to look for the other half of the apparently bisected body. Scott’s unhappy about this, despite his efforts to hide it. He wanted a good night’s sleep before the lacrosse try-outs, and Stiles is laughing at him because the closer said try-outs come, the less faith he has in their ability to do anything other than make fools of themselves. He doesn’t even know what half of the body they’re looking for, and Scott’s having increasing difficulty breathing as he scrambles after Stiles.

All in all, it’s not his best night ever. When Stiles gets caught by his father, he thinks for a minute about revealing himself, but decides against it. He might have, if Stiles hadn’t said something first, but he doesn’t want to get Stiles in extra trouble for lying on top of everything else. So he stays silent and hidden, and once the police have moved on, he cautiously gets up and starts through the forest.

Everything that happens after that seems like some sort of bizarre nightmare to him. The panicked herd of deer, the dead body he finds, the hulking wolflike creature that bears down on him and inflicts a sizable bite in his abdomen. He winds up standing in the middle of the road, listening to a wolf howl and wondering what the hell just happened to him.

When he finally gets back home, Derek is in the kitchen. He frowns at Scott. “Where were you?”

“I went out for a run with Stiles,” he says, glad that he had had the sense to stop by the clinic and patch himself up before heading back to the house.

“You have try-outs tomorrow,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “It was stupid. But you know Stiles.”

Derek’s frown just deepens, as if to say that he does indeed knows Stiles, and as always, thinks the other teenager is a terrible influence on his adopted little brother.

“Lighten up, growly,” Scott says, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. “I’m going to bed.”

By the time he gets to school, he’s feeling a little less freaked out by what happens. Stiles is duly impressed by his war wound, and even more impressed by hearing that he actually found the body. “What did it look like?”

“Uh, he was maybe in his forties, short dark hair – ”

“Dude, I know all that, I heard my dad on the radio,” Stiles says. “I mean, what did it _look_ like?”

“It looked like a dead body, Stiles,” Scott says, and heads for class. He has a headache all of a sudden. Noises seem amplified, echoing through his brain and trampling his grey matter to dust. He’s startled in the middle of homeroom when he hears a girl’s voice that he swears he’s heard before. He looks around but doesn’t see anyone, before realizing he’s hearing the girl sitting on a bench outside. She has long dark hair and is talking on a cell phone, and seems strangely familiar.

The mystery is answered a few minutes later when a school official brings her in and introduces her as Allison Argent, from Wyoming. The teacher directs her to the seat behind Scott. She smiles at him and he nearly falls out of his chair.

He doesn’t see her again until the end of a very long, very _loud_ day, when he’s at her locker and she walks past. Then she stops and walks back a few feet. “Um . . . Scott, right?” she says, and he nods and tries to keep his enthusiasm from showing too much. “It’s really great to see you again. I remember when we used to play together as kids.”

“Uh, yeah, me too,” Scott says, although his memories of being six and seven are quite fuzzy. “I guess our parents are friends, right? Or friends of friends.” He takes a deep breath and dives in. “We should hang out, maybe. You could – ”

“That jacket is absolutely killer,” a new voice interjects, and Allison turns a friendly smile on the newcomer. Seeing that his company isn’t needed, Scott grabs his things and slinks away, although he overhears them inviting Allison to a party on Friday before he goes.

His performance at lacrosse is enough to cheer him up, until he starts to think about it. Then he starts to worry. Stiles’ jokes about lycanthropy don’t improve his day, although at least he finds his inhaler before he has to head to work.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek is five thousand miles into Crime and Punishment when there’s a gentle knock at his door. It’s too early for Melissa to be home from work, and Scott never knocks, so he looks up with a tense, rigid expression on his face, only to see Cora standing there. “Hey,” he says.

“We need to talk,” Cora says, her face tight and unhappy.

Derek frowns a little and gestures for her to come in. She looks around at his stacks of books and papers with a somewhat exasperated expression until he clears off a chair for her. Her hands knot in her lap as she says, “You heard about the body they found last night?”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I got the description off the police radio. Sounded like Ralph Simmons. An omega who’s lived here since the nineties. He was bisected, right? I figured that he probably got in a fight with another werewolf.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably true,” Cora says. “Did you know that our idiot brothers went looking for the other half of the body last night?”

Derek groans. “Jesus. ‘Out for a run’, my ass. Do they not realize that Beacon Hills is _dangerous_?”

Cora sighs. “So they’re stupid. That’s not fucking news. But. Scott seemed a little . . . off. At school today. He kept shaking his head and rubbing at his ears. And then he did really well at lacrosse practice today. I mean, he impressed everybody, even Coach.”

Derek perks up. “Really? God, I know he was so worried about it, he’s been practicing pretty much nonstop all summer. I – ”

“Derek,” Cora interrupts, “he did _really well_ at lacrosse practice. Like, superhumanly well.”

Derek went still. “You don’t think – ”

“I don’t know, Der.” Cora folded her arms over her stomach and started to pace around the room. “I mean, obviously we can keep an eye on him. He’ll be safe enough at the clinic. But the full moon is only a few days away. And what – what do we do if he _has_ been turned? We – we wouldn’t have to – ”

“No,” Derek says. “The rules wouldn’t change for Scott. As long as he doesn’t hurt anybody, we wouldn’t have to hurt him.”

“But that’s a God damned double-edged sword,” Cora says. “Because what if he _does_ hurt somebody, Derek? You know how hard it can be for new werewolves to control themselves. If he doesn’t have anyone to help him keep it in check – ”

“We’ll help him,” Derek says.

“We’re human, Derek. We can’t help him. Not the way another were could. We need to find out who turned him.”

Derek glowers at her. “And go to them for help? You know that he didn’t ask for it. If they turned him without consent, that warrants execution.”

“Okay, so, have them executed by one of your hunter buddies,” Cora says, “but do it _after_ they’ve helped Scott learn control.”

At this, Derek sighs. “I don’t know, it’s weird,” he says. “Gerard Argent has done a lot of really dubious things, but he’s never had a reputation for turning people against their consent. Anything but, actually. He’s an elitist bastard, always going on about the purity of bloodlines and stuff. He’s never accepted an omega into his pack. Why would he randomly turn some teenager in the woods?”

“Maybe we should just . . . ask Scott,” Cora says dubiously.

“Are you kidding? What if we’re wrong? What if he did well at lacrosse practice because he’s been practicing for literally the entire summer? We will sound like lunatics,” Derek says. He shakes his head. “No. You know we can’t get mundanes involved except as a last resort. We’ll watch him. If we’re right, we’ll intervene. But we can’t just say ‘hey Scott, did you happen to get bitten by a large wolflike creature with glowing red eyes’.”

“Fair enough,” Cora says. “I’ll see if I can pump Stiles for info. You know how he likes to talk.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. It’s something he tries to think about as little as possible, because he really enjoys listening to Stiles talk. He enjoys it far too much, given that Stiles is sixteen and ostensibly sort of his little brother. Every thought he’s had about Stiles since returning from Africa and seeing what he looked like after puberty got through with him is something that he keeps locked up in a box, far away from contemplation.

“ – is an alpha?” Cora asks, and Derek shakes himself and asks her to repeat. “I said, what if Chris Argent is an alpha? He’s been gone for six years. People start dying and getting turned the week he gets back? What are the odds of that?”

“That’s a good point,” Derek says. “I’ll ask around. See if I can get more information on him.”

“Yeah, well, move fast,” Cora says. “Scott’s already smitten with his daughter.”

Derek shakes his head and can’t keep a little smile off his face. Somehow, he isn’t surprised at all.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very fond of this chapter because it has vulnerable!Peter and also smut, which are two of my favorite things <3
> 
> also a mild trigger warning for mentions of drug/alcohol abuse

 

_then_

 

If Peter remembered kissing Chris after the prom, he never said anything about it, so Chris didn’t either. Peter had been drunk enough that he honestly might not, or he might think that he was remembering incorrectly, that Chris would have punched him if he had actually done it. So Chris pretended it hadn’t happened, and he went into the summer feeling good about things.

He was going to miss his friends, no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it. Tom was headed to San Jose State. Melissa was going to UC Fresno to study nursing. Claudia had decided to move to San Jose with Tom ‘to live in sin’, she said, laughing, because she wasn’t going to college. She had gotten a job at a bakery there.

Chris and Peter were both staying in Beacon Hills, going to the state college located there, because neither one could leave their family.

They spent the summer hanging out at the tree house, at the lake, at the arcade. They fought trolls and vampires and sorcerers. They kept Beacon Hills safe, and Chris settled into it, feeling like things were okay the way they were.

In the spring of their freshman year at college, Patrick Hale was killed, and everything changed.

It didn’t have anything to do with the Argent pack. It was a fight with a group of revenants, leftovers from a sorcerer who had come through town. A revenant was everything that a traditional zombie wasn’t – quick, strong, intelligent.

“The fight just went bad, that’s all,” Peter said to Chris later, through bloodless lips.

They had killed all but one, and that one had gotten behind Patrick and snapped his neck with one quick motion. Peter had pulled the trigger and taken off its head mere moments later, but it had been too late.

He told Chris about this while sitting in the treehouse three days later, and Chris tried to imagine the guilt, the pain he could feel gnawing away at his friend, even though there was no sign of it on his face or in his voice.

“Hunters die young,” he said lightly. “It’s a fate we all accept.”

Every effort Chris made to talk to Peter about this went nowhere. He said he was fine, they all prepared for this, he and his father had never really gotten along anyway. He sat stone-faced through the funeral while his mother Veronica trembled and shook, his sisters Talia and Jocelyn wept, his uncle Andrew sat with his face in his hands.

“Nothing can touch me,” he said to Chris that night, standing on a branch as it swayed beneath him. “I’m invincible.”

Eloise attended the funeral out of respect for the Hales, and afterwards she sat down with Andrew and Talia and assured them that Patrick’s death changed nothing, their alliance would hold, and that if they needed anything during this period of transition, to let her know. Andrew, ten years older than Patrick had been, had bad hips and liver problems from a life of heavy drinking to combat stress. Talia, Patrick’s oldest child, was the one who took charge of the family.

Later, Eloise called Chris into her study and looked up from where she was filling out some forms with quick, firm strokes. “I want you to keep an eye on Peter Hale,” she said without preamble. “He’s difficult to predict, and I suspect he’s going to take his father’s death hard.”

Chris nodded and said nothing. He stopped talking to Peter about his father’s death because he didn’t want Peter to withdraw from him.

They met on campus for lunch sometimes, shared an economics class, and sometimes went to the Hale house after their classes were done. Chris had permission to be there from Eloise now; he didn’t have to try to hide it. How much Eloise knew about the extent of his relationship with Peter, he didn’t know, and he didn’t ask.

They would sit at the Hale house and plot the movements of supernatural creatures who thought that Patrick’s death meant they could move in. They would research threats and countermeasures. Sometimes they would even do homework.

Peter still complained about Sean’s cooking and bitched about getting roped into babysitting duty and made sarcastic comments about the inadequacies of their classmates. He flirted with Chris just as outrageously as ever. It was like nothing had changed.

But one thing definitely had. Peter was a hunter, he always had been, he had been trained to fight since he was knee-high. He was the deadliest human that Chris had ever met.

And he was losing.

His fighting had become erratic, more vicious but less effective. He took stupid risks, wound up in untenable positions more than once. Chris tried to have his back, but Peter was getting himself in more trouble than he could handle. He nearly got himself killed more than once, and after the third time, Andrew shouted at him to get his shit together.

“I’m fine,” Peter said, when Chris tried to say something. “I’m untouchable.”

Peter climbed too high in the trees, he drove too fast, he picked fights with creatures even when they hadn’t tried to disrupt the peace in Beacon Hills. His hair got long enough that it was in his face and he didn’t seem to care even though that had always annoyed him before. He didn’t sleep enough and drank too much coffee to make up for it. Chris suspected that he was taking drugs, and he didn’t know how to begin saying something about it.

After he started a bar fight that got two of the Argent pack members injured, Eloise called Talia and said, “Control your brother, Miss Hale . . . or we’re going to have a problem.”

That night, Talia called Chris and asked him to come over after his classes the next day. Peter wasn’t there. Chris didn’t think he had attended classes in weeks, couldn’t recall seeing him on campus at all. He showed up at the Hale house not knowing what to expect. Talia stood back to let him in. She was balancing baby Derek on her hip and looked exhausted.

“Will you talk to him?” she asked. “God knows I’ve _tried_. He just says he’s fine. It’s all he’ll say. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see . . . he won’t let me in and I don’t know what to do. You’re the only person he’s ever really listened to.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” Chris asked skeptically. “I have.”

“But you let it go. You drop it when he brushes you off. I know that. You do it because you don’t want him to push you away, to give you even less than he’s already given you. But someone has to push him, Chris, someone has to make him show that he’s vulnerable . . . and I think he’d rather that be you than me.”

Chris let out a breath and nodded slowly. He chewed on his lower lip for a few minutes, then stood up. “I’ll do what I can.”

Talia nodded and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Thank you, Chris.”

Chris went up the stairs, knocked briefly on Peter’s door, and stuck his head in. “Hey,” he said. “You, me, six-pack, rogue omega. You in?”

Peter perked right up. “Make it two six-packs and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Sure,” Chris said, and Peter followed him down the stairs and out the door without a word to his sister. Chris walked in silence for several long minutes. He headed for the tree house. Peter, in his slightly diminished capacities, didn’t seem to notice. They got to a large clearing. Chris glanced around and decided that it would do. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to have this out right now.”

Peter blinked at him. “What?”

“You’re two steps away from doing something that _everyone_ is going to regret, Hale,” Chris told him. “You’re so angry that you’re picking fights with everything that could kill you in a fifty mile radius. Time to pick on someone your own size.” He beckoned him onwards. “C’mon. Give me your best shot.”

Peter’s smiled bitterly. “You really don’t want me to do that, Christopher.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chris asked. “You haven’t slept in weeks. You’re hungover, dehydrated, strung out on caffeine and all the speed you’ve been taking that you think nobody knows about. You couldn’t get the best of an angry duckling right now, and you think that you can take on _me_?”

Peter’s face twisted in agony, and he moved before Chris could say another word. Chris blocked his first hit, knocked the knife out of his hand on his second pass, and swept his legs out from underneath him on his third. Peter hit the ground but came back up swinging. Chris blocked that hit, too, and the kick that came after it. The worse Peter did, the more erratic his moves became. He laid a hit on Chris occasionally, but it was never enough to do enough damage to the werewolf.

Chris was careful not to hurt him too badly, although it was difficult with Peter actively trying to kill him. He knew he left some bruises, but mostly what he did was block and defend. Finally, Peter took him down with a wild tackle, and Chris held his hands up to protect his face while Peter just slammed his fists down on Chris over and over again.

Exhaustion finally overtook him, and the blows weakened. Chris gently pushed his hands away, grasping Peter by his wrists. Peter struggled but couldn’t get free. “Let me go!”

“Not gonna happen,” Chris said.

“Let – let go, you piece of – you don’t know – you can’t – ”

Peter collapsed on top of Chris, his entire body shuddering, and he practically choked on the effort to keep the tears inside. It was a battle that he ultimately lost, and Chris lay there for a long time with Peter’s hands knotted in his shirt, letting him cry until the worst of it was over.

“I can still hear it,” Peter finally said. “The snap of his neck breaking. Every time I close my eyes and try to sleep, that’s what I hear.”

“You know that nobody blames you, right?” Chris asked.

“I was right there,” Peter said. “I had my gun up. I just had to – if I had been just a little faster, I – ”

Chris shook his head a little. “I’ve fought with a lot of people and defended myself from my share of hunters,” he said, “and I’ve never met anyone faster on the draw than you. If you couldn’t do it, nobody could have.”

Peter was quiet for a minute. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said.

Chris sat up, and helped Peter sit up as well. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked, and Peter shrugged. “Ate?”

“I’m not sure. Yesterday morning, maybe?”

“Okay. Are you high?”

He half-expected Peter to argue or protest, but Peter just shook his head. “I took my last dose of speed about three days ago. I’ve come down from it by now.” After a moment, he withdrew a little Zip-lock bag from his pocket. “Was gonna take this when we tracked down the omega, but I guess I won’t need it. Lying son of a bitch.”

Chris took the drugs and slid them into his pocket without commentary. “Let’s go get you something to eat,” he said.

Peter rubbed both hands over his face. “I can’t – go home. The way they look at me. I know they don’t blame me, but – I can see their pity. I hate that. I thought, if I could just work through this, I would prove to them that I could work through anything.” He stared off into the distance. “It’s idiotic, but do you know what bothered me the most?”

“What?”

“They – they were surprised. That I was upset. That I _cared_. Talia wasn’t. But the others. Uncle Andrew. Jocelyn, Sean, Kayla. They had this perpetually surprised look around me like ‘huh, I guess he’s not a sociopath after all’.”

Chris thought about this. “Sometimes I think your family doesn’t know you very well.”

“Sometimes I don’t think anybody does,” Peter replied, “myself included.”

“I know you,” Chris said, and when Peter looked at him and gave him a crooked little smile, he felt his cheeks flush pink. But he stuck to his guns. “I said that about you, you know, the night of the prom. That you knew me better than I knew myself. Maybe it goes both ways.”

“Maybe.” Peter tried to stand, wobbled, and nearly fell. Chris caught him and helped him up. “I _am_ starving. I could really go for something greasy. A cheeseburger. Onion rings.”

“We can order to-go at Ruby’s,” Chris said, “and then we can crash at – I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.” He sure as hell wasn’t about to bring Peter back to the Argent den, not when he was in this condition. There were too many people there that he didn’t trust. And that – that was sad in a profound sort of way. He didn’t know what it meant, that he was trying to protect this man, this _hunter_ , from his pack.

He pushed that aside. Peter wasn’t okay, and that was his priority. So they walked – Peter was a little shaky, clearly worn out, but still vertical – to the Hale house, where Chris had left his car. They didn’t go inside, but just drove away. By the time they got to Ruby’s, a diner where they had hung out a lot during their high school days, he had dozed off. Chris went inside and ordered them both a double bacon cheeseburger, fries for him, onion rings for Peter, and two milkshakes. He knew Peter well enough to order dinner for him. Another disturbing thought.

They couldn’t go back to his house or Peter’s, none of their friends were still in town, and Peter desperately needed to sleep. Chris wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but after due consideration, he headed for a hotel. There was a Day’s Inn on the north side of town. He left Peter asleep in the car while he went inside and asked for a double room. The ditzy, gum-chewing receptionist gave him a key. Chris pulled the car around and shook Peter awake.

It immediately became clear that the receptionist had been too busy chewing her gum to pay attention to what Chris had actually asked for. There was only one bed. Peter didn’t even seem to notice; the smell of the food had distracted him and he was already halfway through his cheeseburger. “You know the way to win a man’s heart, Christopher,” he said with his mouth full.

“Shut up, Hale,” Chris said automatically.

Peter ate everything in sight, including half of Chris’ French fries, and then said he wanted a shower. “I wish you had thought to bring me some spare clothes,” he said. “I think I’ve been wearing these for three days straight.”

“I can tell,” Chris said, wrinkling his nose.

Peter peeled his shirt over his head, threw it in Chris’ face, and disappeared into the bathroom. A few moments later, the water turned on. Chris huffed out a sigh and shouted, “I’ll be back in ten minutes!” and then left the room. There was a twenty-four hour Wal-Mart just down the road. He bought Peter a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. It would have to be good enough. He wasn't buying the other man underwear.

Peter was still in the shower when he got back, so he just cracked the door open and tossed the clothes in. About ten minutes later, Peter came out, dressed only in the gym shorts, hair damp, magnificent physique, scars and all, on display. Chris felt suddenly, uncomfortably, _intensely_ attracted to the other man. Fortunately for his pride, Peter didn’t seem to notice. He pushed a hand through his hair (Jesus take the fucking wheel) and said, “I’m beat.” Without another word, he crawled underneath the blankets. “Please tell me you don’t plan to sleep on the floor.”

Chris scowled at him, knowing that whatever answer he gave was the wrong one. If Peter was going to mock him, he might as well be comfortable, so he grit out, “No,” and got in the bed next to him. Peter, of course, immediately nestled right up to him. But surprisingly, he didn’t make a big deal out of it or start flirting. He just curled up in a half-fetal position, his cheek pressed into Chris’ shoulder, and fell straight to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris woke when the light splashed through the motel room window and into his eyes. He grumbled a little, shifted, and then froze in confusion. Then he remembered where he was, and relaxed. The bed wasn’t that uncomfortable. He had rolled over at some point during the night, and Peter was wrapped around him like an octopus. The hunter’s arm had snaked around his middle, fingers pressed lightly against Chris’ collarbone. Chris could feel Peter’s breath on the back of his shoulder.

He could see the clock on the far wall, and it was seven thirty. Still early. No rush to get up and go anywhere. So he decided to lie there for a while. Peter was asleep. There was no harm in it. They had nowhere to be. He wasn’t surprised he was awake, though; they had gotten to sleep fairly early, maybe a little past ten. He _was_ surprised that he had slept the entire night through, in a strange place, with another person at his back. He didn’t normally sleep that well even in his own room.

About twenty minutes later, he felt Peter stir. Felt the heartbeat against his back speed up, and then slow, much the way his own had.

He knew Peter was awake. And that he should say something. Pull free. Get out of the damned bed. But he really didn’t want to. He was so comfortable, _too_ comfortable, and it wasn’t like he would ever get another chance at this.

The longer the silence stretched out – and he was sure, somehow, that Peter knew he was awake – the more difficult it became to say something. But it didn’t feel awkward, per se. It felt . . . charged. Electric.

He startled a little when Peter’s hand slid along his collarbone and down his arm. He thought about making a comment about what Peter was up to, but he wasn’t sure he could keep his voice even if he did. Much to his surprise, Peter’s hand simply drifted down his forearm, and then the hunter twined his fingers through Chris’.

Chris considered this move. Considered it while Peter’s thumb rubbed over his knuckles. Considered it while he felt the rise and fall of Peter’s chest against his back. Considered it while Peter’s scent changed, while the desire started to roll off of it – and this was the first time Chris realized that lust and desire weren’t exactly the same thing, that lust was purely physical, but Peter’s scent had an edge of _want_ , of _need_ , that had nothing to do with hormones.

He rolled over so abruptly that it took them both off guard. Peter was right behind him, and their faces were only an inch apart from each other. They stared at each other for a moment that seemed far, far too long to Chris, and then they were kissing.

He didn’t know much about kissing, and he was fairly sure that he wasn’t doing a good job. For a minute it was all mashed lips and tangled tongues and his teeth clicked against Peter’s once which felt pretty weird and he knew he was probably embarrassing himself and he didn’t even care. Peter’s hand caressed his cheek and then they were half-sitting up and he just snaked an arm around Peter’s waist and rolled them both over again so he had Peter pinned to the mattress. Peter made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and God, his _throat_ , how had Chris never noticed before that Peter Hale’s neck was a work of art that deserved all of his attention? He buried his face in it, biting and licking at the skin, and Peter gave a laugh that was half moan.

They kissed again, and this time Chris was able to back off a little, let the far-more-experienced Peter run the show, guide things along. He didn’t know who Peter had been having sex with over the years – probably a lot of different people – but he knew that the hunter was no virgin. And he was equally cognizant of the fact that Peter was aware that Chris was. That was okay, somehow.

Peter was still wearing only the gym shorts, and Chris wasted no time exploring the expanse of bare skin with his mouth and his fingers. Peter just hummed in contentment and slid his hands up underneath the T-shirt that Chris was wearing, stripping it over his head. Chris made a little noise when he felt Peter’s hands on him, and accidentally bit down on Peter’s lip. Peter just laughed, then reciprocated by tugging on Chris’ lower lip with his teeth in a way that made _everything_ in Chris’ vision go vague and sparkly.

He reached for the waistband of Peter’s shorts, but Peter batted his hands away. “Don’t be in such a rush,” he purred. “I’ve waited too long for this for it to be over quickly.”

“God damn it – ” Chris wanted to protest with more coherency, but coherency was a thing from the distant past and Peter’s thigh was pressing hard against his crotch and he couldn’t figure out how to use words. “Bastard – ” He dropped his head down to Peter’s chest, bit down hard on his collarbone and tried to maintain some semblance of control, tried not to just rut against Peter’s thigh like some sort of animal. Peter wasn’t helping, or maybe he was; he had his hands on Chris’ ass and he was just pulling them together, making little noises in the back of his throat and Chris was starting to feel like this might be over quickly regardless of what Peter wanted.

But it wasn’t, because Peter seemed to have some sort of devil’s sixth sense for when Chris was getting too close to the edge, and then he always pulled away, or shifted, leaving Chris gritting his teeth and grabbing handfuls of the sheets with both hands, trying not to shred them with his claws. He saw Peter laughing at him at one point, and he didn’t even care, he just kissed him again, kissed him until the other man was gasping for breath and his lips were swollen and bruised.

He managed to keep from destroying anything until Peter actually tugged his boxers down and grabbed his cock, at which point he choked out, “ _Christ_ , Peter – ” and grabbed at the head of the bed, breaking off a decorative spoke. Peter laughed harder.

“I don’t suppose you have lube?” Peter asked, as Chris tried to catch his breath.

Chris growled at him and said, “Why the hell would I? This isn’t exactly how I saw this going.”

“Hm. That’s going to be a problem.” Peter didn’t seem particularly deterred, mouthing at Chris’ ear in a way that drove him absolutely crazy.

“Couldn’t we just – ”

“No!” Peter said, laughing. “Good God, you really don’t know anything. Imagine going down a waterslide without water. Then you’ll understand why lubrication is important.”

Chris grimaced despite himself. “Well, I’m a lot more sturdy than you. We could – ”

“I really doubt you want that to be your first sexual experience, and don’t try to tell me that it wouldn’t be, I know you better than that.”

“Well, what do you have in mind, then?” Chris asked, trying not to growl.

“Hm . . . I think . . . this.” Peter flipped them over and settled between Chris’ legs before he could blink. He heard himself let out a choked little noise despite himself as Peter went down on him. No amount of jerking off could possibly have prepared him for that. Nothing in the world should possibly feel so good. It should be illegal. He thought he was saying some of this out loud, and he didn’t even care.

He couldn’t keep his hips still, couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up into the heat of Peter’s mouth. Peter just _took_ it, like he was _born_ for it, born to have Chris’ cock in his mouth. He made a little noise occasionally but they were by no means unhappy noises. He kept his hands steady on Chris’ hips, thumbs digging in hard enough to leave bruises, not that they would. Chris wanted to grab his hair but he knew that his claws were destroying the mattress, so he kept them there. He could feel the orgasm building in his gut, at the base of his spine, _everywhere_ , every nerve in his body on fire with it. He thought that there was probably some etiquette about coming in another guy’s mouth, but he couldn’t remember how to talk, and then it was too late. It didn’t seem to bother Peter, though; he didn’t flinch or draw away, but kept Chris in his mouth until he was done. Then he pulled back, licking his lips as he did so.

“Fuck,” Chris grated out, trying to lift his head but then letting it drop back against the pillow. Peter was laughing at him again, but the laughs were more like moans, and he was grinding against Chris’ hip. Chris grabbed his ass and pulled him forward harder. Peter bit out a surprised curse and then leaned down to bury his face in the curve of Chris’ neck, rubbing his cheek restlessly against his shoulder. Chris held onto him and let him do whatever he wanted. Peter groaned and continued to rub his cock into the groove of Chris’ hip until he came all over Chris’ stomach, sucking a line of bruises against his throat that faded almost as soon as they appeared.

They lay in silence for a minute, then Peter leaned up and mouthed at Chris’ ear. “Worth waiting for, I hope,” he said.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” Chris replied.

Peter laughed again and gave a long, luxurious stretch. “I hope you don’t think I’m done with you for the day,” he said.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing,” Chris said, although in truth his eyelids were kind of heavy, and he really just wanted to go back to sleep.

“A stop to pick up a few supplies might be in order,” Peter murmured into his ear.

“Shut up, Peter,” Chris replied, and he fell asleep to the feeling of Peter tucking his head into the crook of his shoulder.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of skimming over some stuff here because it's so similar to season one canon, so if anything's unclear, please let me know! <3

 

_now_

 

Stiles sits and stares at his computer, caught somewhere between fascination, terror, and excitement.

His best friend is a werewolf.

His best friend is a _werewolf_.

Stiles’ father, the best cop he knows, is fond of saying ‘once is chance, twice is coincidence, and three times is conspiracy’. And Stiles had been all about having a good laugh at Scott’s anxiety on the first day. But the bite. The wolf howl. The forensic evidence on the body. The performance at lacrosse. They left ‘conspiracy’ four hours ago and are rapidly approaching Armageddon.

His best friend is a werewolf.

Now if only he could get Scott to _believe_ him. And maybe Scott does, but just won’t accept it yet. Stiles could get behind that, because dude, fucking _werewolves_ , but at the same time he’s desperately afraid of what’s going to happen at the party tonight, because Scott’s going to lose control. Scott’s _already_ losing control, and Allison gets him worked up like nothing he’s ever seen before.

Scott has already pushed him around and clawed up his chair, but that’s nothing. Scott’s his brother. They’re going to fix this. So he grabs his keys and drives over to the McCall household. He’s a little disconcerted when he bolts in and finds Derek sitting on the stairs, staring at the door like he was waiting for Stiles to arrive. “Oh, uh, hi,” he says, feeling a flush spread over his cheeks. “Is Scott here?”

“He’s in the shower,” Derek says. “Getting ready for his date.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, feeling stupid.

Derek keeps giving him that laser-like gaze. “Is everything okay?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but somehow there are layers of meaning to his question that make Stiles extremely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, uh,” Stiles says. “He’s just really worried about how it’s going to go with Allison tonight. I thought I’d drop by and offer some moral support. Bad timing, I guess. I’d go along and wingman, but you know, I can’t get into that sort of party. Or, I could, but it never seems to go well when I do. I’m kind of a dork and a pariah,” and oh God why is he admitting this to the hottest guy he knows? He clears his throat. “So uh, just tell Scott I’m going to come by after the party to see how it went. Uh. Bye!”

Derek’s frowning as Stiles all but runs out of the house.

Now what?

Now, he decides, to do a little research about the murdered man and see if he can figure out what the hell is going on.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek’s never exactly been good at blending in. Lurking, yes. Sneaking, definitely. Blending, not so much. So he’s gotten a number of dubious looks at the party, and he thinks a couple of the teenagers who aren’t wasted are considering calling 911 to report a suspicious person. Fortunately, before any of them can and before any of the girls starts trying to make out with him, he finds Scott. He’s on the dance floor and clearly isn’t feeling well. He hears Scott tell Allison he doesn’t feel well and then run off, leaving her standing there, perplexed.

When he tries to follow Scott, he can’t find him anywhere. Ten minutes pass, and then fifteen. Allison is starting to look less concerned and more forlorn. Ten minutes after that, she’s crossing into irritated, and Derek decides he’d better intervene. Scott isn’t answering his cell phone, and although Derek has a strong suspicion why not, he can’t leave Allison hanging. Scott’s future dating life probably depends on it. He’s happy to do his little brother a solid – this, at least, is something he can help with.

“Allison?” he asks, and she turns a questioning gaze on him. “Hi. I’m Derek, Scott’s older brother?” He gives her the charming smile that he knows wins hearts. He can’t imagine how, because he knows exactly how fake it is.

“Oh, hi,” she says. “Do you know where Scott is?”

“He texted me asking if I could pick you up. I guess he started horking in the bathroom. Probably the stomach flu. He said he didn’t want you to know, so pretend I didn’t tell you, okay?” Derek says, and Allison laughs prettily. “You want a ride home?”

Allison looks around the party, then nods and says, “Sure.”

Derek offers his arm, and escorts her out to his car. He loves his car. It’s one of the few things he’s ever spent real money on. He’s happy with worn-out clothes, secondhand books, but his car. His mother had loved hotrod cars, and so when he turned eighteen and the contents of his trust fund became accessible to him, he asked Melissa about buying a car. She had never seen him ask for anything before, let alone something he would use his trust fund for, so he said sure. The Camaro is his pride and joy.

“So how do you like Beacon Hills so far?” he asks, because he knows that sitting in a car in silence is considered awkward by most people.

“It seems like a really nice place,” Allison says. “I used to live here, you know, but I guess I was kind of a homebody. It’s a lot of fun to meet new people.”

They chat for a few minutes while he drives her the rest of the way home. “Oh, hey, that’s my dad’s car!” she says, as they’re pulling onto their street and see a dark SUV a little ways ahead of them. “I think he said he was going out to see some friends tonight.”

Derek pulls into her driveway and says, “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She unbuckles her seatbelt. “Tell Scott I hope he feels better, okay?” she adds, and slides out of the car. Derek watches her go. He sees Chris Argent getting out of his own car, looking at the Camaro, and doing a double take. He exchanges a few quick words with Allison and then walks over to Derek’s window.

“Derek,” he says, a little cautiously. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Derek says. “I offered to give Allison a lift home from the party.”

Not for the first time, he wonders how much Chris knows about what happened to the Hale family. Is Chris anxious? Afraid that Derek is trying to make some sort of statement about how he could get to Allison, could hurt her? Is he thinking that Derek is some sort of hero because he just drove home the niece of their murderer without laying a finger on her? Is he completely oblivious to the shifting undertones that Derek can feel?

“I thought she went with Scott?”

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Derek says. Is Chris an alpha now? Is he the one who turned Scott in the forest, against his will? Does he know exactly why Scott couldn’t handle the party with Allison tonight? “I see you were out and about. Getting settled in?”

“Yeah, I . . . went to visit your uncle, actually,” Chris says.

“Was that a good idea?” Derek asks. “Tonight?”

Chris’ jaw tightens. “I’m in full control of my shift,” he says, glancing around to make sure nobody can hear. “I have been since I was six. Including under difficult emotional circumstances.”

“Is visiting my uncle difficult for you?” Derek asks.

Chris let out a slow breath. “Look, Derek,” he says, “you don’t have to like me. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me, in fact. But please leave my daughter out of whatever . . . problems . . . there might be between us.”

“There aren’t any problems,” Derek says. “Not yet. But leave Peter alone. He’s been through enough.”

“Yes, I know.” An expression of pain crossed Chris’ face. “But I’m still going to visit him. I’ve left him alone long enough.”

“He wouldn’t want you to see him like this.”

“Then I guess he’d better snap out of it,” Chris replies.

“You might not like what he does, if that happens,” Derek says.

Chris looks towards the trees lining the back of their yard. “An omega was killed in the forest a few nights ago. Was that you?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Then we’re going to have a problem, aren’t we? But we can solve it faster, cleaner, if we work together.”

“I’m not going to work with you, Argent,” Derek says harshly. “Just don’t get in my way.” With that, he pulls out of the driveway in a screech of burned rubber.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Peter must have fallen asleep at some point, too, because when Chris woke, it was to the noise of the other teenager moving restlessly against him. He half-sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. For a minute, he thought Peter was trying to wake him up by making out with him. Then he caught the scent of distress, saw the sweat where it was beading on Peter’s forehead. Bad dreams, then.

“Hey,” he said, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder and giving him a rough shake. Better to bring him out of it quickly. “Wake up, you’re dreaming.”

Peter sat up abruptly and one leg flashed up and around Chris’ waist. He rolled them over and had Chris pinned by his throat before Chris could even react. His gaze flicked around the room like he was trying to figure out where he had left his gun. Then coherency started to set in and his grip loosened. “Sorry,” he said, rolling off of him.

“It’s fine,” Chris said. “Nice move.”

“My ground holds are killer,” Peter agreed lightly. He was obviously trying to sound unbothered by the nightmare, but Chris could see his hands were shaking as he sprawled back onto the bed.

“Look, I know you’re all fucked up about this,” Chris said, “and you don’t want to let anyone see it. So just . . . let me see it. You don’t have to let anyone else in. But I’ve already seen you at your lowest, right? So there’s nothing else to lose. So next time you can’t . . . can’t keep it all inside anymore, instead of picking a fight with an ogre, come see me. We can have angry sex.”

Peter sat back up. “That’s dirty fuckin’ pool,” he said. “You resisted my advances for two years and now you’re going to use the concept of sex to get what you want out of me? That’s low, Christopher. You don’t play fair.”

“No, I don’t,” Chris said, and smirked. “Guess who I learned that from?”

Peter laughed despite himself, and flopped onto Chris’ chest. “I suppose I can’t complain,” he said, “given that I was giving fifty-fifty odds on you trying to give me some sort of ‘this can never happen again’ spiel.”

“Do you think I’m some kind of masochist?” Chris asked. “Well, maybe I am, given that I still voluntarily spend time with you.” His stomach rumbled, and he shook his head. “Let’s go get some breakfast. And then . . . find somewhere to go for the rest of the day.”

“I can’t exactly go back to your place,” Peter pointed out, “and I don’t really want to go back to mine.”

Chris shrugged. “Notice that I wasn’t suggesting either of those places,” he said, then added, “but you should call Talia. Let her know you’re okay.”

He expected Peter to argue or protest, but Peter just nodded and reached for the phone on the nightstand. Chris hauled himself out of bed and went into the bathroom to clean up while Peter spoke. “Hey, Sean. Talia around?”

Chris could hear Peter’s half of the conversation, but the running water kept him from hearing whatever was said on the other. “It’s me. Yes, I . . . I’m fine, Talia. No, I spent the night with Chris . . . no, not at his den, do you take me for an idiot? Or him, for that matter, we both know better than to . . .” His voice softened. “I’m all right, Talia. Thank you, for worrying about me. . . . hm? No, I might be late tonight. Or tomorrow.” A snort of laughter. “That leaves me a wide range of options, don’t you think? Mm. All right. Bye.”

Chris came out of the bathroom, pulling a T-shirt over his head, thinking about the ‘wide range of options’. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t?” he presumed.

“Talia could tell quite the tale about her wilder days,” Peter said lightly. “Breakfast?”

“Twice over,” Chris agreed.

It was a beautiful late spring day out, and they ate at an outside table at a nearby café. Chris worried about awkwardness, but it really wasn’t. Peter looked tired, dark smudges under his eyes, hair somewhat mussed up. He was rubbing at his jaw like he wasn’t used to being unshaven. Chris wasn’t exactly sure where the boundaries of their new relationship lay, and decided to test them out. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Peter said simply. “I have a lot of catching up on sleep to do. But I can do that later.” He took a bite of his omelet. “I’m dropping out of school,” he said.

Chris picked up his mug of coffee and considered that gambit. “I’m not surprised,” he finally said.

“Was that an insult?” Peter asked, frowning faintly.

“No. It’s a fact.” Chris took a drink and set the mug down. “I was surprised you went to begin with. College doesn’t seem like the type of place that would have a lot to offer you. When you want to learn about something, you pick up some books and do it. You’re already smarter than anyone else in any of our classes, probably including the professors. But I know your grades are in the toilet after the last two months of blowing off classes, so no, I’m not really surprised that you don’t want to bother putting in the effort to catch up. You could take a leave of absence.”

Peter nodded a little, and he even seemed a bit satisfied that Chris knew him so well. “I could. But you’re right in that I never particularly wanted to go. It was something to do, but . . . Talia is going to need me. You know that things have been a little insane over the last couple months. People taking my father’s death as a sign that Beacon Hills is open for business.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed.

“So.” Peter shrugged and went back to eating. “I decided that while you were sleeping this morning. Hunting is a full-time job, you know. And it does pay well.”

“I know,” Chris said, because he did know. He knew that big-name hunters like Patrick Hale pulled down figures in the five digits for jobs that took less than a day. Even Peter, at nineteen, had had some jobs pay that much. When a town had a problem with a rogue omega or a warlock or a troll, it wasn’t unusual for it to come with a huge paycheck attached.

“What about you?” Peter asked, his mouth full.

“Are you asking me what I want to do when I grow up?” Chris asked, amused.

“I guess so,” Peter said.

Chris shook his head a little. “I don’t know. I’ve never known.” He didn’t know what else to say, how to convey that his future had always just seemed empty to him, like a giant no-man’s land, where nothing he imagined could possibly fill it.

Peter tilted his head to one side and regarded Chris curiously for a few moments. Then, thankfully, he changed the subject. They finished eating and left the café. There was a pharmacy right across the way, and Peter headed for the aisle of necessities without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Chris, however, flushed pink despite himself as Peter grabbed the lube and then a box of condoms. “We don’t,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We don’t need condoms.”

“I know _you_ don’t,” Peter said. “Can’t catch or carry disease, et cetera. These are just for me.”

“No,” Chris growled, grabbing him by the wrist. Peter gave him an affronted look, and Chris took a deep breath, fighting against the instincts that were churning his insides. It took him a minute to make himself coherent again. “I don’t care what you’ve done before now. But if we’re having sex, that’s it. You and me. And if that means we don’t fuck, then we don’t. It’s all or nothing.” He struggled to explain himself. “I don’t share. _Wolves_ don’t share. If I knew someone else was having sex with you, I would tear out their throat. I wouldn’t be able to help it.”

Peter considered this for a long minute while Chris waited to see what his decision would be. “God, I shouldn’t find that so sexy,” he finally said.

“You really shouldn’t,” Chris agreed, scowling.

Peter just laughed. “Okay. All or nothing?” He leaned forward until his lips were a bare inch away from Chris’ ear, until Chris could feel Peter’s breath on his cheek. “I’ll take it _all_ , Christopher.”

Chris fought for a long moment not to just throw Peter onto the floor and start tearing his clothes off. He cleared his throat and took a step backwards. “Buy the damned lube and let’s get out of here.”

He took a few minutes to regain his equilibrium while Peter brought their purchase up to the counter. It wasn’t until they were out of the store and back in the car that he said, “Why do you call me that, anyway?”

Peter glanced at him. “Because nobody else does. Why do you call me ‘Hale’, like it’s an insult?”

Chris thought about that. “Because it’s not one anymore,” he said.

“How romantic,” Peter said, and Chris cuffed him upside the head. “Where to?”

They wound up in the God damned tree house. It’s so _stupid_ , Chris said repeatedly, but they couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. They couldn’t get another hotel room because it’s not even noon; no one will allow them to check in somewhere. Neither of their houses are fair game. And the tree house, well. It’s remarkably sturdy and well-built. Peter and Sean and Andrew had done a good job with it. Peter had long ago dragged up some amenities like pillows and blankets in case they ever got stuck there again, and they had indeed spent a couple summer nights there. There was a cooler with a few beers and some sodas.

It was funny, Chris thought abstractly, because if someone had asked him twenty-four hours previous where he might be the next day, the answer was definitely _not_ in the tree house with Peter riding his cock, but that’s where he wound up. “Life is weird,” he said, at the end of round two, and Peter laughed so hard that he nearly fell out of the tree.

They relaxed and had a beer and Peter told Chris some stories about the hunts his father had taken him on when he was a kid. Chris didn’t envy the pain Peter felt at having lost his father, but he _did_ envy the hell out of Peter for the nineteen years he had had one who cared about him.

The second time had been just as hasty and enthusiastic as the first, but the fire had died down a little and they were able to slow down, explore. Chris traced his fingers over Peter’s scars and inquired about the origins of each one. Peter started cataloguing all of Chris’ most sensitive places, testing to see where and how he got the best responses.

Chris wound up on his hands and knees and Peter asked if he was sure, and Chris said he was, because that was fair, right? He didn’t tell Peter that he had thought about this for months, maybe years, had daydreamed about getting fucked by Peter, what it would feel like, just as often as he had daydreamed about fucking him.

It was nothing like he would have expected but far beyond what he would have imagined, a slow burn that felt so good that when he finally came he tilted his head back and _howled_. Behind him, he heard Peter choke out, “Holy _shit_ , Christopher,” and then he was laughing in a way that was almost hysterical, laughing and coming at the same time, which was an amazing sound that Chris wanted to remember forever.

They were both exhausted after that, and although Peter seemed content to crash in the tree house, Chris thought he needed a real bed and eight solid hours of sleep. He prodded Peter to his feet and brought him back to the Hale house. He was stumbling from weariness as Chris shoved him inside. Talia put an arm around her little brother and hugged him, then gave Chris a smile that was warm and genuine. Chris nodded to her and then headed back home.

Kate was waiting for him in the front hall. “Well, look who’s doing the walk of shame!” she said, aglow with excitement.

Chris feigned looking over his shoulder as if he was trying to figure out who Kate was talking about. “Oh, you mean me? No, sorry. Really no shame here.”

“The ‘got laid parade’?” Kate suggested with a wicked smile. “I could get behind that! You’ve been dreaming about fucking that hunter for _how_ long now?”

Now Chris did scowl at her. “It’s nobody’s business who I’m having sex with.”

Kate laughed. “Don’t worry, big bro. I won’t tell Dad you’re screwing a hunter.”

Chris gave her a suspicious look. Kate didn’t say things like that, didn’t do him favors without ulterior motive. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch! I’m just happy to see a smile on your face for once. You needed to loosen up in the _worst_ sort of way. Maybe some regular sex will make you less of a killjoy.” Kate immediately negated all of the benevolent tidings in her words by saying, “You can just owe me a favor.”

“Lovely,” Chris grunted, heading up the stairs so he could shower before anybody else could smell Peter all over him.

“You’re welcome!” Kate shouted after him, and her laughter followed him up the stairs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

 

“You know what actually worries me the most?” Scott asks.

“If you say Allison, I’m gonna punch you in the head,” Stiles responds. It’s too early for this bullshit. He’s been up all night looking for Scott, who took off from the house at some point in his werewolf fervor. Presumably to howl at the moon, ugh, Stiles doesn’t even know.

“She probably hates me now,” Scott says.

“Ugh. I doubt that.” Stiles reaches over and claps him on the shoulder. “Derek drove her home and made some excuses for you, like a big brother should. Now, what the hell he was _doing_ at that party, I don’t know. Maybe he took my thing about being your wingman to heart. Either way, I’m not about to ask him, because if he had a date, I don’t want to know about it. So how about we just revel in the fact that you’re a freakin’ werewolf?” He sees that Scott isn’t buying it. That’s fair. He had a rough night. “Okay, bad idea. We’ll get through this. Come on, if I have to, I’ll chain you up on full moon nights and feed you live mice. I had a boa once. I could do it.”

“You had that boa for six weeks before your mom realized how big it was going to get and made you give it back to the crazy dude you got it from,” Scott points out.

“But _during_ those six weeks, I took excellent care of it,” Stiles replies. Scott just shakes his head and gives a little snort of laughter. That’s good enough. He made Scott laugh, which was really the point of the exercise. His brain is going in a million different directions right now. Werewolves are real. It casts _everything_ about the attack on the Hale family in a different light. How did wolves disarm the security system? Simple. They weren’t wolves when they did it.

Argent is French for silver. It’s ironic for a family of werewolves to be named that, but Stiles has learned over the years that God loves a good pun. So if the Argents are werewolves, did one of them bite Scott in the woods? Did one of them kill the guy whose body they were looking for? By all accounts, he’s led an unremarkable life, a drifter who took part times jobs at different factories. The police have no idea who could have killed him or why.

He shelves it. The Argents clearly aren’t going anywhere if they’ve been here since the 1800s. Scott’s situation is what requires his immediate attention, which he figures out eight hours later when Scott nearly kills him in the locker room. “You won’t be able to play lacrosse until you get this under control,” he says, and Scott gives half-hearted protests but doesn’t argue as much as Stiles thought he would. And if he nearly killed Jackson, well, in Stiles’ opinion that’s just a side benefit.

It’s when they get back to Scott’s house after school and find Derek in the kitchen that he has to bite his tongue to resist saying something. How much does Derek know? Does he know about werewolves? They can’t say anything. If he doesn’t, he’ll think they’re crazy. But what if he _does_? What if he already knows werewolves killed his family?

The Hale family had lived inside a double layer of fencing. That sort of thing isn’t normal. From Cora’s sleep-talking, he’s pretty sure she knew about it. From the reports of the crime scene that he’s liberated from his father and read until he’s memorized them, he knows that the Hales had defended themselves, violently. They had been prepared for _an_ attack, if not _this_ attack. But if Derek or Cora knew who had killed their family, why hadn’t they ever said anything?

“Cora says you’ve been doing well at lacrosse,” Derek says, chopping vegetables for the beef stew he’s making as they settle down with their homework.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Scott says, shooting Stiles a sidelong glance. Stiles doesn’t notice because Derek is wearing one of those tank tops that he favors. “Yeah, I made first line, but – I don’t think I’ll be able to play in the game on Saturday.”

“Why not?” Derek asks, glancing over. “I think your mom was going to request the day off.”

“I, uh, I kind of lost my temper with the team captain today,” Scott says. “Pretty sure if I play, he’s gonna annihilate me.”

“Knowing Jackson, he’ll just forbid anyone from passing to you,” Stiles says, chewing on his pencil. That might actually solve all their problems. Or maybe he could get Scott to injure himself early in the game, make a dramatic exit. That would be good with the girls _and_ with Coach. He makes a mental note to talk to him about it later. Getting Jackson to ram into him again wouldn’t be too difficult.

“How’d it go with Allison today?” Derek asks, continuing to chop.

“Oh, it was fine, good,” Scott says, perking up a little. “I don’t know what you said to her Friday night, but I owe you one. We’re going to go out after the lacrosse game Saturday.”

Stiles deflates. Scott will never agree to pretend to be injured if it means he’ll have to skip his second date with Allison. Stupid Scott. Stupid hormones. Stupid Derek in his stupid tank-tops, just for good measure. He chews on his pencil with new ferocity and changes the subject. “Hey, who do you think killed that guy in the woods the other day?”

Derek’s knife comes down with a thud. “How should I know? I didn’t even know the guy.”

“I dunno, I just heard you asking my dad about it,” Stiles says defensively. He can’t help but feel protective of his father, given his mother’s death. He’ll steal the man’s files without compunction, but he doesn’t like other people getting involved. “Why the sudden interest?”

Derek scowls at him. “Maybe I was poking my nose into something that was none of my business,” he says to Stiles. “That’s an activity that should sound familiar to you.”

“Right,” Stiles says, redirecting his attention to his homework before Derek bites his nose off. Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with him, being attracted to someone who was so . . . surly. It isn’t just his looks. There are lots of hot people in Beacon Hills. It’s just that, as much as snide bitchiness is a huge facet of Derek’s character, there are other sides to him, too. The studious side which would always rather be buried in a book, the generous side which rescues Scott on his date and makes dinner almost every night without complaint. There are so many good things about Derek, and he feels like most people never see them.

He gets so wrapped up in his homework that he barely notices when the others show up, and soon enough it’s dinner time, and then it’s the next day and he still has no idea how to talk Scott out of playing. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, and apparently, much to his surprise, Scott figures it out. There are some hiccups and possibly some broken bones and definitely a broken lacrosse net, but he sits in the stands with his father and Melissa and everyone cheers and – it goes okay, really.

But as Scott starts to amp things up and Stiles starts to get more tense, chewing on his lacrosse gloves like they’re his only source of nutrients, he notices a strange thing. Derek is getting more tense, too, staring onto the lacrosse field with a dark, brooding expression. Derek is just as worried as he is. And when Scott finally runs off the field before he can lose control, Derek turns to follow at the same time Stiles does. “I’ll check on him!” Stiles says, practically shoving his way in front of Derek and hoping that this hasn’t killed his chances with the other man forever.

By the time he finds Scott, he’s in the locker room kissing Allison, and Derek is nowhere to be seen. Feeling thoroughly disgusted by the entire affair, Stiles decides to go home and play World of Warcraft until this whole werewolf thing blows over.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little on the short side, sorry. Splitting up the then/now stuff can be interesting that way.
> 
> All opinions on vegans offered in this chapter are Peter Hale's, not mine.

 

_now_

 

Scott wakes up shouting from the dream he had, chasing someone through the woods, tearing them apart, only to realize that it was actually Allison. He’s lying on a pile of damp leaves, somewhere in the forest, and groans. “How the hell . . .” He staggers to his feet and finds that he’s completely naked. Perfect. It’s shaping up to be a great day.

He manages to sneak into the house without anyone noticing, takes a quick shower, and eats breakfast. As he bikes to school, he tries to remember the details of the dream, but it’s fuzzy now, fading. He thinks he was behind the school, out near the lacrosse field. He remembers seeing the fence along the back of the school, the dumpsters there.

Stiles is his normal sunny, sarcastic self, and they try to talk about it, but Cora’s hanging a little closer than usual today, so it isn’t until they’re in homeroom that he manages to share the details of the dream in a hushed voice. Allison’s not there, and he’s starting to freak out. His vision is getting that red film over it that appears when he starts to lose control, and he can sense Stiles tensing up, smell Stiles’ fear that he’s going to shift right there in front of everyone else.

Then Allison walks in, serene and beautiful, and the world returns to normal. Stiles lets out a sigh of relief.

When he goes into his third period class, which is chemistry, he sees a number of police cars and an ambulance in the parking lot. A bit of unease twists at his stomach, and looks over at Stiles. “What do you think’s going on?” he asks, under his breath.

“Lemme text my dad and ask,” Stiles says, but he’s no sooner pulled out his phone than Harris is yelling at him and taking it away. Stiles makes a face at Harris when his back is turned, then shrugs apologetically at Scott.

Scott can barely keep still all during class, watching police officers mill around the parking lot. They keep going into the woods and then coming back. Caution tape has been put up.

As soon as the bell rings, he jolts out of his seat and heads towards the parking lot. They have three minutes to change classes, but he doesn’t care if he’s late. Stiles, who has to stop to get his phone from Harris, catches up just as he’s made it there, which is just in time for them to see the body bag get deposited in the ambulance. “Holy _shit_ ,” Stiles blurts out.

“Stiles, I – ” Scott’s voice drops. “I think I might have – ”

“What are you two little miscreants doing here?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, walking over.

“Hey, Dad, what happened?” Stiles asks, ignoring his question. To be fair, he doubts his father really expected an answer; it’s quite obvious what they’re doing.

“Looks like another animal attack,” his father says. “There’s probably a rabid cougar in the woods.” He frowns at the two of them. “And it’s got nothing to do with either of you, so go on, get to class.”

As they head inside, Scott says, “I’m not so sure about that.”

“You think you killed the guy?” Stiles asks, with an excruciatingly unsurprised tone. Scott tells him about the dream that he had. Stiles listens to this with a frown on his face and says, “C’mon, dude, that doesn’t mean anything. I mean, just because you dreamed it doesn’t mean it _happened_.”

“Doesn’t mean it _didn’t_ , either,” Scott says.

“Point,” Stiles says. “Okay. Well, I’ll pump my dad for information at dinner, and then we can go check it out after dark. You know, see if being there makes you remember anything.”

Scott groans but agrees. He’s supposed to be going out with Allison, and okay, bowling with Jackson and Friends, not exactly his idea of the best date ever, but he doesn’t want to cancel. Any minute with Allison is a minute worth living, in his opinion. But that can wait; he’s got a day to sort it out in the meantime. With that in mind, he slogs through the rest of the school day and heads to work.

In the end, he learns more about the attack before Stiles does, because the sheriff drops by the clinic to talk to Deaton. Scott busies himself feeding the dogs in boarding and pretending not to listen, which gets him nowhere since Tom knows him. Deaton doesn’t think it was a wolf because a wolf would have gone right for the ankles to cripple its prey, and then for the throat.

“None of the body was eaten, right?” Scott asks, since they know he’s listening anyway.

Tom shakes his head. “It’s damned funny is what it is. It doesn’t seem consistent with any sort of animal attack.”

“Was it maybe a person?” Scott asks dubiously. “I mean, could they be knife wounds?”

“No, knife wounds look completely different from claws,” the sheriff says.

“They don’t seem to have bled a lot,” Deaton says, going through the pictures. “Have you considered that they were made post-mortem?”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “I’m waiting for confirmation from the ME on that.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks.

“It might mean that someone is trying to make it _look_ like an animal attack,” Tom tells him, “by making wounds with some claw that he got somehow, after he’s already killed the victim.”

“Oh, I get it,” Scott says. He goes back to feeding the animals while he tries desperately to remember what had happened in the woods the night before.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek’s curled up on the sofa in the McCall family living room when Cora arrives. There’s a book in his lap and his laptop is open to the paper that he’s supposed to be working on, but he hasn’t touched it. He’s watching the news, the reports on the dead body, the man who was obviously chased through the woods by an animal and then mercilessly slaughtered.

“Derek,” Cora says quietly.

“I _know_ ,” Derek growls at her. He slaps his book shut and turns the television off. “It might not be him.”

“Derek,” Cora repeats, “two people are dead.”

Derek’s jaw sets in a scowl. “It’s not our fucking job to do anything about it.”

“Oh, really?” Cora folds her arms over her chest and gives him an exasperated look. “Is that why you keep spreadsheets on all the different monsters that the Nemeton attracts? Is that why you have maps in your bedrooms where you plot crime statistics? Is that why you have four different buddies of Mom’s on metaphorical speed dial, just in case you get wind of something?”

Derek pushes his hand through his hair. “We don’t have any evidence that Scott killed anyone. Hell, we don’t even have solid evidence that he’s a werewolf.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Cora says. “Sudden pain response to loud noise. Sudden increase in athletic ability. When was the last time you saw him use his inhaler? I sure haven’t in the past week or two. What about what happened the night of the full moon? He suddenly ‘felt sick’, ran off, and then we didn’t see him until dawn?”

“It’s not exactly seeing him with fangs and claws,” Derek retorts.

“So how many people have to turn up dead before we do something?” Cora’s voice softens. “Derek, he’s my brother too. I don’t want to have to hurt him. But think about how _he’ll_ feel if he finds out that he killed people, that we could have stopped him but didn’t.”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Okay, fine. Jesus. The moon’s waning. His instincts will be on the decline. Let’s just – let’s just keep an eye on him, okay?”

“He’s got a date with Allison tomorrow,” Cora says. “They’re doubling with that dudebro Jackson and his bitchy girlfriend. Maybe one of us could go along.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be awkward at all,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Do you mind if I bring my reclusive older brother along on this date?”

“It would just be like a triple date.” Cora dons a wicked smile. “You could ask Stiles to go with you.”

“What? No!” Derek hopes he isn’t flushing as pink as he feels. “Get out, that would be even creepier. He’s sixteen.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” Cora says impatiently. But she doesn’t push her brother. She knows that there are some things he won’t give way on. “Okay. I’ll rustle myself up a date and invite myself along. Won’t that be fun. Maybe I can ‘accidentally’ drop a bowling ball on Jackson’s toe.”

“Bowling, huh?” Derek asks, cracking a smile despite himself. “Scott’s a terrible bowler.”

“He might not be so terrible anymore,” Cora says, sobering a little. Then she frowns. “Hey. Allison Argent is human, right? I remember Mom talking about that some time. About how Gerard tried to force Chris to turn her, but Chris wouldn’t allow it.”

“Yeah. Why?”

Cora shrugs. “Allison’s human, but she doesn’t seem like an idiot. She grew up around werewolves. How long is it gonna take _her_ to figure out that something’s going on with Scott? I mean, she didn’t know him when he was an asthmatic klutz, but . . .”

“I don’t know.” Derek rakes a hand through his hair. “I talked to Chris Argent when I drove Allison home from the party. He says he doesn’t have anything to do with the omega that was killed, and I believe him. Mom wouldn’t have been friends with him if he was that sort of person.”

Cora perches on the arm of the sofa. She sits there quietly for a few minutes before saying, “You wanna go see Uncle Peter after dinner today?”

Derek glances at her. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Maybe . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘Maybe something will shake loose if we tell him about this’ is what he was going to say, but he doesn’t know if he means inside Peter or inside himself.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Scott asks, nervously glancing over his shoulder.

Stiles stops and gives him a look. “Scott. We are literally crossing tape that says ‘crime scene – do not cross’. In what universe do you think the answer to that question is going to be ‘yes’? Obviously it’s not okay! Do you want to know what happened last night or not?”

Scott squares his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, and pushes forward. “No, you should stay here. Keep watch.”

“Keep watch for what?” Stiles asks impatiently. “Why’s it starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t want to be Robin all the time.”

“Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time,” Scott replies.

Stiles thinks this over. “Not even some of the time?”

“Just stay here!”

“Oh my God!” Stiles says, rolling his eyes all the way across the county line. “Fine,” he continues, but Scott is already continuing over the tape and through the woods. Stiles paces back and forth, muttering to himself, thinking about how grounded he’s going to be if his father finds out about this. This is more important, _obviously_ , but he doesn’t enjoy making an idiot of himself, and can’t imagine what explanation he would give if they were caught.

Scott comes back a few minutes later, before he can lose too much of his mind. He looks pale and shaken. Stiles practically pushes him into the Jeep and peels away before they really can get caught. “Did it work? Did you remember?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. From the look on his face, Stiles fears the worse for a minute, but Scott continues, “I was there last night, but I didn’t attack him.” His brow furrows a little. “I think – I was trying to protect him. There was definitely someone else there. I remember – running. And finding the guy who died being attacked. I tried to get in the way. Stop the attacker. He knocked me down, and by the time I managed to get back up, it was over.”

Stiles mulls this over. “Okay. So you were out minding your werewolfy business and tried to help your fellow man. That’s actually pretty cool, Scotty. You’ve regained my respect.”

“Uh, when did I lose it?” Scott asks.

“When you agreed to go bowling with Jackson,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Okay. What can you remember about the attacker?”

“I never got a good look at him,” Scott says.

“C’mon, man, think. You’re the witness to a crime. Think back. Was he tall or short? Was it even a he? What kind of build did he have, how did he move, did you see any weapons?”

Scott closes his eyes, and Stiles drives in silence for a minute. “I don’t really know if it was a man or a woman. He – or she, but let’s just use he because that’s easier – was my height or maybe a bit shorter. It was hard to tell because he was ducking and weaving. He definitely had a knife. I saw the moonlight glint off of it.”

“Okay, good, that’s good,” Stiles says. “Anything else?”

“He . . . didn’t hurt me.” Scott frowns. “That might not seem important, but I think it is. I mean, yeah, he knocked me flat, but he wasn’t _trying_ to hurt me. He just wanted to get me out of his way so he could get to the other guy.”

“So maybe he had some legitimate beef with him or something,” Stiles concludes, nodding thoughtfully.

“He must’ve been fast,” Scott says. “Like, _really_ fast. I wasn’t down very long, maybe a minute, but by the time I got up, not only was the first dude dead, but the attacker was long gone.”

Stiles is still nodding. “Okay. Other senses. Smell, sound. Did he say anything?”

“No. Not a word. And he didn’t really have a smell.” Scott’s frowning now. “Which is weird, actually. Everyone has a smell. But he didn’t, not really.”

“Well, fuck, maybe he’s some sort of wizard,” Stiles says. Scott’s giving him a look. “What? You’re a werewolf, Scott. You’re going to balk at ‘wizard’?”

“I guess not,” Scott says with a sigh.

“Hey, don’t look so down!” Stiles says, reaching over to punch his shoulder. “This is great news! You totally didn’t kill a guy, which means – ”

“I can go out with Allison!”

“I was gonna say it means you won’t kill me.”

“Oh, yeah. That too.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and Scott gives him an adorable goofy grin, and then Stiles just laughs because he can’t help it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

It wasn’t a magical solution, their relationship, but it helped. Peter started to get his shit together. He gave the rest of his stash of drugs to Talia to dispose of for him, since he didn’t quite trust himself to do it. He cut back on the coffee he drank gradually and started trying to sleep at night. It wasn’t always easy, but he evened out. When he couldn’t sleep, he walked over to Chris’ and threw rocks against his window until the other teenager woke up. “Just like in the teenaged romances,” Peter said, and Chris just rolled his eyes.

Chris had forbidden Peter from ever trying to sneak into the Argent house itself, and Peter had to admit that was a fairly reasonable precaution. He knew Chris’ class schedule, so it was fairly easy to track him down even if he wasn’t attending school anymore himself. Chris objected on general principle, but Peter tended to ignore his objections. It led to a lot of rushed handjobs in bathrooms, a hurried blowjob here and there in a supply closet, and occasionally frantic sex over a desk in an empty classroom. Peter loved it.

He still had trouble with it sometimes, remembering the death of his father, but it faded. He had been surprised himself at his reaction to it, probably more than either Talia or Chris was. But he adjusted. He started taking jobs again, acting as Talia’s second-in-command of their family. The others in the family started trusting him to watch their back again, and not do anything too reckless.

One night he woke up from bad dreams when Chris was out of town, helping his grandmother approach a new alpha in the area, and after an hour of tossing and turning, he got out of bed and went into his sister’s room. He didn’t try to be stealthy; sneaking into a hunter’s room while she slept was never a good idea. He opened the door clumsily and walked with heavy footsteps. Talia was half-sitting up as he came in. “I can’t sleep,” he said, and she got up without question. She made tea and sat with him until dawn.

That grew to be a more common occurrence than the 3 AM booty calls, mostly because Chris really did get anxious about Peter trespassing on their property. Peter knew he could take care of himself, but he also knew that Chris wasn’t entirely rational when it came to Gerard, for which he didn’t really blame him. Since Talia said she didn’t mind – “Derek will start crying because he’s hungry any minute now,” she said, and she was usually right – Peter started relying on her to get him through the nights, and left his relationship with Chris to the daytime.

“So,” she said during one of these late nights, holding Derek to her breast, “you and Chris Argent.”

“Mm,” Peter said, sipping his tea. He couldn’t keep the smug smile from crossing his face.

Talia saw it and groaned. “You have _no_ shame, do you.”

“None whatsoever,” Peter agreed.

Talia sighed and shook her head, but it was clear that she was amused. “You should have him over for dinner sometime.”

Peter scoffed at this idea. “He’s not my _boyfriend_ ,” he said.

“No,” Talia said evenly, “but he isn’t just one of your conquests, either, and don’t tell me that he is, because I know you better than that.”

“Maybe,” Peter said, “it’s all part of a grand scheme I have to infiltrate the Argent pack and rule these woods.”

Talia gave him an unimpressed look. “Werewolves are matriarchal. If that was your scheme, you’d be screwing Kate.”

Peter’s response was a theatrical shudder. “I’d rather stick it in a beehive.”

Talia laughed despite herself. She settled Derek a little more comfortably and said, “Peter. Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Do you want an honest answer to that question?” Talia asked. “Because from over here, I think I can see exactly what’s going on. You’re not trying to worm your way into the Argent pack. You’re trying to get Chris _out_.”

Peter gave an innocent little shrug, but then he saw the look on his sister’s face. His gaze become unwontedly serious. “I don’t know how much you’re aware of the Argent pack’s internal politics,” he said. “God knows that you have enough to do without worrying about that, particularly because as of now, they’re extremely stable.”

“That much I know,” Talia said.

“Eloise Argent is a formidable woman and she rules that pack with an iron fist,” Peter said. “Chris is a particular favorite of hers, and he’s probably closer to her than he is to any other member of the family. And she isn’t exactly at death’s door. But she isn’t going to live forever, either. She has three daughters. The eldest, Mirielle, is Chris’ mother, and ostensibly she’ll take control when Eloise dies.

“I’ve met Mirielle several times, as have you, I think. And you know as well as I do that she has neither the backbone nor the stomach to do what needs to be done in that pack. The Argent code has been diluted over generations. Werewolves that have married in, including Mirielle’s own husband, openly complain about it. They are the superior breed, they say, so why should they not do as they like?

“When Eloise dies, it’s very likely that the Argent pack will dissolve into civil war. And Chris is in an extremely bad way if that happens. His father scorns him in favor of his younger sister. Kate is probably an honest-to-God psychopath. If Gerard takes control from his wife . . .”

“Things will go very badly for Chris,” Talia agreed, and pushed a hand through her hair. “He’s a werewolf, Peter. He won’t leave his pack.”

“Well, now, certainly not,” Peter said. “And it wouldn’t be easy on him.”

“So what are you trying to do, fuck sense into him?”

Peter gave her an amused look. “Such language in front of the baby.”

“He’s asleep,” Talia said, which appeared to be true. “You know what I mean. You can’t just decide this for him.”

“I know.” Peter raised his hands in surrender. “But he will be reluctant to leave even if things go bad. Not just because of his loyalty to his family, but because being omega is dangerous. I can’t change that. But being omega with me at his back? Well, that would be a different story.” He shook his head a little. “I can’t make his choices for him. All I can do is make him aware that he has somewhere to go.”

Talia drank the last of her tea. “Do you love him?”

Peter considered. “As much as I’m probably capable of it, yes, I think I do.”

She shook her head a little. “Sean won’t like it.”

“What can he say? He married a vegan,” Peter said, and Talia laughed so hard that she woke the baby.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

_then_

 

Chris climbed up into the treehouse with some trepidation, because Peter had seemed irritated on the phone, and when Peter got irritated enough that it was audible, that never boded well. He found the hunter sitting there with his Desert Eagle dismantled in front of him, carefully cleaning it. “Hey. What’s up?”

Peter glanced up from his work. “I have to leave town for a while,” he said.

“Where to?” Chris asked, settling into the crook of two branches.

“New York,” Peter said.

Chris blinked. “Why are you going to New York?”

Peter sighed and set his gun aside. His forehead was creased in little lines of annoyance. “Jocelyn got into Columbia. I had told you that, right?” he asked, and Chris nodded. “Well, Talia wants me to go with her for the first six months or so. She was _supposed_ to be able to connect with a local hunter family there who would look after her, but they decided at the last fucking minute that they’re moving to Toronto, so they won’t be there.”

Chris thought about this for a long minute. “Why does Jocelyn need a chaperone?”

“Are you joking?” Peter asked. “Have you been to New York City?” he added, when Chris just continued to look confused. “It’s a fucking playground for the supernatural. I know werewolves hate big cities, but there’s a lot of other creatures that don’t. Vampires, revenants, fucking _faeries_ – and let’s not talk about the troll that lives under the Brooklyn bridge; that guy is an asshole.”

“So your sister can’t take care of yourself?” Chris asked skeptically.

“Jocelyn’s seventeen, she’s the youngest, most vulnerable member of a hunting family that has approximately a million enemies,” Peter said. “Can she take care of herself? Certainly. Can she do it while maintaining good grades at a fucking Ivy League school and having an actual college experience the way she would like to? Probably not.”

Chris grimaced. He knew that Peter had a point. Peter had been excited – hell, all the Hales had been excited – when Jocelyn had gotten accepted into Columbia. She was good at the hunting, but it wasn’t her dream. She wanted to go into law school, and since hunters had their fair share of scrapes with the law, they were always happy to have a lawyer in the family. Talia wasn’t worried about carrying on the family legacy. Sean and Kayla’s son was fourteen now and getting good at what he did. Laura was already enthusiastic about hunting even though she was only seven. Nobody in the Hale family was forced to go into hunting, Peter had mentioned sometime back. If they wanted to, great, if not, the family would support whatever career choice they made.

It was something else that Chris envied about the Hale family. He was still adrift even though he should have a plan by now. He had changed majors twice and wasn’t satisfied with either of them, and he would be starting his senior year in a couple weeks. The Argent pack had two businesses that they worked in – security and weapons. Neither of those particularly interested Chris. He supposed he would probably get a business degree and find some boring white collar job to do. He detested the idea, but couldn’t think of anything better.

“Why does it have to be you?” he finally asked.

Peter sighed. “Come on. Christopher. Sean and Kayla have a fourteen year old son. Kayla owns and runs that yoga studio while Sean does all the accounting for all of us. They can’t just take off. Andrew – I love my uncle dearly, but he’s been slowing down for years and my father’s death took him out of the game pretty much completely. Talia’s needed here, not just because she has two children but because she’s the driving force in this family that keeps our presence established here. And my mother, bless her heart and soul, is _not_ capable of protecting Jocelyn in the Big Apple. It has to be me.”

“Well . . . I don’t like it,” Chris declared boldly.

Peter laughed at that, leaning over to kiss him, an open-mouthed, languorous kiss that had Chris pursuing his mouth when he drew away. “You could come,” he said. Chris actually laughed at the absurd suggestion, but Peter didn’t let it go. “There are probably nine hundred colleges in New York. Your grades are good enough to get into eight hundred of them. You could come with me.”

Chris’ laughter faded. “You . . . you’re serious,” he said.

“We could get a place,” Peter said. “It would be just you and me. No pack, no family looking over our shoulders with disapproving faces. No more sneaking around.”

There was a long moment of silence. Chris looked away. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t leave my pack. You know that.”

“I know it, but I don’t understand it,” Peter said.

“Maybe a human can’t.”

“Maybe,” Peter agreed. He leaned forward and kissed him again. “I understand this,” he said against Peter’s mouth. “Come with me, Chris.”

Chris took a deep breath. “Peter,” he said, “I can’t. It’s not – it’s not about you, or about us. It’s my pack. There are – there are too many people who don’t believe in the Code now. Not _really_ believe in it, the way they should. I’m one of my grandmother’s strongest supporters. If I leave, it would weaken her position as the alpha. Someone else could try to take over.”

“We could kill your father,” Peter suggested.

Chris withdrew from him. “That had better be a joke,” he said.

“Of course it was,” Peter said, and they both knew it wasn’t.

The silence sat for a few moments too long to be comfortable. Then Peter rose to his feet. “I have to pack,” he said. “I’ll see you when I see you, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, looking away. “I’ll see you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

 

One dead omega isn’t really a big deal. Werewolves get in territory fights all the time, and although there’s less of it when a pack rules the town, it doesn’t end the conflicts entirely. Beacon Hills has always attracted more than its fair share of omegas, because towns with stable packs see fewer other monsters, and typically fewer hunters. It’s a safe place for an omega to be. And if they can work for the pack long enough, do enough favors, sometimes they’ll get protection or even a place in the pack in return.

That doesn’t happen with the Argent pack. Gerard has never taken in an omega, and to Chris’ knowledge, his grandmother Eloise was notoriously selective. She would accept favors and grant some limited protection, but that was as far as it went. The omegas that came to Beacon Hills more often did it because the Hales were there, and as long as they kept their noses clean, the Hales were no threat to them. But the Hales _were_ a threat to any other supernatural beastie that came through which might pose a danger to the average omega.

Chris had known a handful of omegas in Beacon Hills. Some of them seemed on the level, others a little more shady. But it wasn’t really the kind of thing that concerned him, not back then.

One dead omega isn’t a big deal. When second turns up, Chris goes on alert.

There are no hunters in Beacon Hills, not anymore. But the information he got from the papers makes it seem like these are animal attacks. So who would kill omegas, and why? Was there some larger undercurrent in Beacon Hills that he hadn’t realized before he moved there?

He needs to see his father. He isn’t looking forward to it, but he can’t avoid it forever. He calls Kate, and she says he can come over that night. She’ll clear everything with their father.

Chris waits until late, until after Allison’s come home from school and gone to bed. Then he heads over to the house. Just the sight of it makes pain stab through his gut.

In the past few weeks since arriving in Beacon Hills, he’s gone to visit Peter at the nursing home three times every week. And in that time, he’s received exactly no sign that Peter realizes or cares that he’s there. He sits with him and tells him about Allison, reads to him from some of the books sitting around, holds his hands, shows him photographs. He’s even kissed him once or twice. Anything to get some sort of reaction. But there’s been nothing. If the doctors are right about it being psychological, then Peter has gone so far inside himself that he’s never coming out.

He thinks sometimes that he would almost prefer Peter _was_ dead. For now, he can go in and visit, read to him, try to coax a reaction out of him. But he can see the months and years spooling out in front of him. The hope that Peter will wake that will slowly become a bitter, poisonous despair.

And he’s certain that Peter would never have wanted this. That Peter would have far rather been dead than having someone feeding him, changing him like a baby. He knows that all the Hales had living wills that had a great deal to say about comatose states and the like. Apparently, the idea of psychological catatonia had never been put in them. That doesn’t surprise Chris. It’s not the sort of thing he would have anticipated happening to any of them, least of all Peter.

So for now, all he can do is sit in that room and pray that he’ll hear Peter say ‘Christopher’ to him one more time.

He knocks on the door to the house. A young man he doesn’t recognize opens it and lets him in. The mate of one of his younger cousins, probably. He stands back to let him in, and Chris follows him to the main hall, where all official business was conducted. Gerard is sitting in the chair at the back of the room. He hasn’t changed much. Lost a bit of hair, gained a few wrinkles. But his eyes are the same, hitting him with that hard, disappointed gaze.

“Chris, it’s good to see you,” he says, getting to his feet.

Chris doesn’t move towards him, doesn’t respond to the clear invitation for an embrace, a pack greeting and exchange of scents. “Two omegas have died on the preserve since I got into town a few weeks ago,” he says.

Gerard is too dignified to respond with ‘hello to you too’, so he just sits back down. “I’m aware.”

“Did you kill them?” Chris asks.

At this, Gerard lets out a chuckle. “You don’t waste time, do you,” he says.

“Not back then, not now,” Chris says. “Did you?”

“No,” Gerard says. “I assumed the omegas were having some infighting. It happens from time to time. From what I read in the papers, it did look like animal attacks. Although, of course, there haven’t been wolves in California in over sixty years.” He shakes his head. “How is Allison getting along in school?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Allison,” Chris says. “I came here to ask about the omegas. I have. If you don’t know who’s killing them, we’re done here.”

“Chris,” Gerard says, as he turns to go, “I understand that we haven’t always had the best relationship. But if you want to live on this territory, you’re going to be part of this pack. You knew that when you came back here. You can be mad at me all you want, but for the sake of your family, you need to put aside old grudges.”

Chris turns back. He keeps his voice even as he says, “Dad, you killed someone that I cared about. Maybe it was in self-defense, maybe it wasn’t. I’ll probably never know. Either way, it’s not the kind of thing I can just ‘put aside’.”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Doesn’t want to hear his father’s opinion on the matter. What he wants to hear is his father’s heartbeat, which stays calm and steady as he replies, “You have my condolences for Peter Hale’s death, but I told you back then that I won’t apologize, and that’s not going to change.”

“No, it isn’t,” Chris says, and leaves the room. His father hadn’t reacted at all. He’s put the death of Peter Hale six years behind him. It confirms the thing he _needed_ to be true. That his father has no idea that Peter survived his attack, that Peter is sitting in a nursing home only twelve miles away from where they’re standing.

He leaves the building and heads to the police station. Tom is there, sitting behind his desk and frowning down at a report. He looks up as Chris comes in, and shuts the door behind him. “I need to ask you something,” Chris says, and Tom arches his eyebrows but gestures to the chair. Chris abruptly drops into it. “Why is Peter in a nursing home under a fake name?”

Tom lets out a breath. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me earlier.”

“I didn’t ask because I knew the answer, or at least most of it,” Chris says. “You secreted Peter away because you suspected what happened to him hadn’t been an accident. But I need to know all of it. I need the details.”

Tom studies him for a long minute, thinking. “How much do you know about the attack on the Hale family?”

“Enough to know that a bunch of wolves didn’t do it,” Chris says.

“Then you, me, and Peter all know the same thing,” Tom says evenly. “There were too many inconsistencies. But there was nothing I could do. The sheriff at the time came down and stepped on my investigation. When Peter left the children in me and Melissa’s care, I knew damned well that he was going to conduct his own. I’ve never been exactly sure of what Peter did after high school, but I know damned well it was legally gray at best. A fixer, a hit man, a private detective, none of these things would surprise me. I knew that Peter knew what he was doing. And Talia – she was my friend, too. She was there for me after Claudia died in a way that few other people were. I let Peter do what Peter was going to do. As if I could have stopped him.

“When that motorist found him nine tenths dead on the side of the road, it was obvious to me that whoever killed his family got to him before he could get to them. Again, I tried to push the issue. Again, my boss came down and declared it was an accident, a mechanical failure in his car, gas tank leak, combustion, et cetera. That time I wasn’t allowed access to the investigation. So I did what I had to do to keep Peter safe. I knew his injuries were severe enough that his death would surprise nobody. I bribed a guy at the newspaper to print a story and an obituary. Melissa helped me fake a death certificate. A guy I had busted a few times for identity theft helped me get him a new ID in exchange for me dropping a few cases I had pending against him. We put him in Greenbriar and Melissa and I never said a word to anybody besides the kids.”

Chris lets out a breath. “Did you ever have any suspects?”

“For Peter’s death? Probably about a dozen. He had made enemies in his line of work. But for the Hale family? The whole thing was so damned weird I didn’t know what to think. I had no idea where to start. Do you?”

Chris looks away. “Maybe.”

“But you’re not going to tell me. You’re going to go conduct your own investigations, and probably end up mostly dead on the side of a road somewhere, just like Peter,” Tom presumes. He rattles the paper he’d been reading. “And in the meantime, I have two dead guys in the forest who both look like they were attacked by wolves, when wolves haven’t been here in decades, and this starts a week after you get back into town? Do you know what that means in cop lingo, Chris?”

“That you think I’m a suspect,” Chris says. “Not just for these two deaths but for the Hale family, too.”

“Yeah. That’s what I _would_ think, anyway, if I hadn’t seen you and Peter together so many times. You can deny it all you want, deny it the way you’ve denied it for the past twenty years, but you were so in love with him that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.” Tom slaps the pile of papers down onto his desk. “Which leaves me with a big fat pile of nothing and a guy in my office who obviously knows a hell of a lot more about what’s going on than I do.”

Chris sighs. “This was a mistake,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Probably not,” Tom replies. “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, Chris. I’m going to solve this. And I’m going to bring whoever did it to justice. And I’m going to do that with or without your help, whether you like it or not. So if you’re smart, you’ll tell me everything you know. For Peter’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I don’t know who killed the Hale family,” Chris says. He can’t say anything. It’s Tom who’s going to end up dead, if he pushes this. Gerard wouldn’t hesitate to kill a vanilla mortal or two, if they threatened his pack. “I honestly don’t. I know that the person who tried to kill Peter doesn’t know he’s alive. Your ruse worked. He’s safe.”

“And do you wanna tell me how you know that?” Tom asks. “Or should I just arrest you for obstruction of justice?”

“It wouldn’t stick,” Chris says. “There isn’t an open investigation of Peter’s injuries.”

Tom’s mouth thins a little. “Okay, Chris,” he says, “if that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Chris nods and silently stands. He leaves the sheriff’s station feeling even more alone than before.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Peter spent the entire year in New York City, rather than six months as he had originally planned. That had surprisingly little to do with Chris’ rejection of him, and much more to do with the volatile nature of the city. Sometime in April, he judged that the situation was stable, that he had cracked enough heads and slit enough throats that Jocelyn would be safe without his continued presence. At that point, he decided to stick around another few weeks just to make sure Jocelyn felt secure during her finals.

He had come home over Christmas break with her, but had intentionally avoided seeing Chris. Now he had the entire summer stretching out in front of him, and the sting of rejection had faded. He had had a few sexual partners in New York, but none like Chris. He decided to pay a late night visit to the Argent house when he got back.

He dropped Jocelyn off at home and endured the hugs from various family members, in a range of sincere to awkward. Then he said, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up,” and left the house without another word. He climbed the fence around the Argent compound with the same ease as ever and started throwing little pieces of gravel against Chris’ window.

The window opened a minute later, but Chris didn’t open it. Kate did. “Well, look who the cat dragged in!” she said, in that tone of hers which was part excitement, part bloodlust.

Peter smiled politely. “Why are you in Chris’ room?”

“We swapped rooms,” she said. “This one’s over the kitchen and the noise was making it hard for him to study.” She smiled wickedly and added, “You would’ve known that, if you’d ever called.”

“Which window is his now?” Peter asked, ignoring the dig.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him you’re here,” Kate said, sliding the window shut and disappearing from view. Peter sighed. He had suspected for quite some time that Kate knew the extent of their relationship, but it wasn’t exactly comforting to have it confirmed. Kate was smart in a way that had nothing to do with books. She could read people, manipulate them. He knew that a charming exterior was one of the hallmarks of true psychopathy, but Kate was extremely good at it.

A few minutes later, the back door opened and Chris came out, looking somewhat hangdog. “You should have called,” he said.

“Hello to you too,” Peter said. Chris just glowered at him for a few moments. “Are you studying?”

“No. I just finished finals yesterday. Graduation is on Sunday.”

The air between them is awkward, tense with all the things they hadn’t said. “What major did you wind up with, in the end?”

Chris gave a little grimace. “Business and accounting. I’m starting with my uncle’s security firm in two weeks.” He changed the subject. “How’s your sister?”

“Excellent, both of them, thank you for asking,” Peter said. “Yours?”

“Same as ever,” Chris said, shoving his hands down into his pockets.

The movement drew Peter’s attention to a wound on his forearm. “How’d you get that, and why hasn’t it healed?” he asked.

Chris looked away. “Silver, angry yakuza, a general lack of preparedness on my part.”

“Your father set you up again?” Peter asked, and Chris’ silence was answer enough.

Neither of them spoke for a long minute. Then the window above them opened again and Kate shouted, “Oh my God, will you two just go fuck already? Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Chris winced. But Peter smiled. “Catch me if you can, Christopher,” he said, like they were seventeen again, and he took off for the back wall at a dead run. And as always, Chris followed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying Stiles-and-Cora-as-siblings, and Derek-and-Scott-as-brothers. It's a fun dynamic for them. ^_^

 

_now_

 

Cora finally gives up on the idea of finding a date. It’s safe to say that she’s never really been a blooming social flower. She can’t just be a fifth wheel, so she storms into Stiles’ room, scowling. “Whoa, knock!” he says, hitting alt+tab to change windows so fast that she’s surprised his fingers don’t come flying off. “What’s up?”

“We should go with Scott and the others tonight,” Cora says.

Stiles is somewhat used to the fact that Cora can be tense and snappish for no reason, and so her lack of preamble doesn’t bother him. Her statement, however, clearly does. “What? Hell no. I’m not going anywhere near that disaster waiting to happen.”

“What, you have a hot date?” Cora asks impatiently. “Come on. Scott needs our support. He’s going out with the biggest douche on the planet.”

“As much as I absolutely agree with your assessment of Jackson, it’s bad enough that it’s a foursome,” Stiles says. “A sixsome is like a death sentence.”

Cora folds her arms over her chest and says, “Why does it matter?”

“Look. It was supposed to be a date. Right? But now it won’t just be them. With two couples, you can call it a double date, and it still has date-like qualities. Add two more, who aren’t even _dating_ , and suddenly it’s not a date at all, but just a ‘hanging out’. And that’s not Scott wants to do. He does not want to ‘hang out’ with Allison. He wants to date her. He wants to date her _so hard_.”

“Gross,” Cora says.

“Besides, why are you suddenly so convinced that Scott needs ‘support’?” Stiles asks. “You didn’t care when he went to the party.”

“No, and then he got sick and ran away and left her there.”

Stiles blinks. “Point.” He stands up. “Okay. Let’s go bowling. But we’re not _joining_ them. We’re going to very carefully, possibly with fake mustaches, observe them. And if it looks like we need to step in, murder Jackson or whatever, we can do it.”

Cora nods, relieved. So that’s how she winds up lurking around a bowling alley, pretending that she’s supposed to be there. To be fair, there’s a small arcade between the two sets of lanes, so they play some pinball and air hockey and occasionally stroll past the lanes just to make sure everything’s going okay. She finds herself extremely bored, extremely quickly.

“Look, he’s doing fine,” Stiles says, about an hour in. “We have better video games at home.”

“Yeah,” Cora agrees, somewhat reluctantly. She doesn’t want to leave Scott, but he really does seem to be doing fine. They get in Stiles’ Jeep and head back to the Stilinski house. They’re on the sofa watching X-Files on DVD when the front door opens and Scott comes in.

“Hey, ‘sup,” Stiles says, without tearing his eyes away from the screen.

“Why were you guys at the bowling alley?” Scott asks, and Cora immediately goes tense again. When had he noticed them? _How_ had he noticed them? They had been fairly careful. Had he smelled them? Was there a way she could ask without looking like a paranoid bitch? Not likely, given that she was the one who had instigated the spying session.

“To make sure you didn’t get sick and run off leaving Allison alone with Jackson and Lydia,” Stiles says, and Scott nods in understanding. “How’d it go?”

“Oh my God, it was _awesome_.” Scott flops down onto the sofa with them, and then he has to tell them all about his date, and says he sort of got into the bowling by the end, he was getting better at it, and it obviously had to be Allison’s influence on him. Cora sighs and resigns herself to a long night.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hey, Daddy!” Allison says, bouncing in through the front door of the Argent house. It’s late, and she suspects that her mother will be in bed already, but she’s not surprised to see that Chris has waited up for her.

“Hey,” he says. “How was your date?”

“It was fun!” Allison’s eyes sparkle as she regales him with some of the finer details, particularly the look on Jackson’s face when Scott had started to get a bunch of strikes in a row. She’s still feeling a little shy around Lydia, as glamorous as she is, and frankly Jackson is kind of irritating. He’s probably one of those guys who acts like a jerk because he’s secretly insecure, but she’s wondering if maybe they can skip past some of that bullshit.

“Good,” Chris says, and there’s a real, genuine smile on his face which Allison is glad to see. He’s seemed tired lately, since moving back. She’s perceptive enough to know that he had moved back to Beacon Hills primarily for her benefit. That he would have been happy as a hermit forever. She doesn’t know why – he wasn’t like that when she was younger – but she knows that the reasons they had left to begin with were ‘complicated’.

At the time, Victoria had just said that they had gotten the opportunity to run the ranch, it was a good business move for her father, and that it might only be a couple years. The older Allison got, the more she started to understand that this was complete bullshit. Her father had worked in security; running a ranch in the middle of Wyoming had absolutely nothing to do with his career. It was an escape, plain and simple.

She also knew – even if she hadn’t understood it at the time – that her father had been deeply depressed after their move. Not _because_ of their move; he seemed to find solace in the hard work and empty landscape. It was just something that saturated every aspect of his being.

After a few delicate questions hadn’t gotten her anywhere, Victoria took her aside and told her that her father had lost someone very dear to him before they had moved, and there was nothing that would help him recover except time and love. So Allison resolved to love her father as much as possible, and give him all the time he needed. Still, it’s nice to see him smiling.

That reminds her of something, but she takes a minute to think about how to phrase it while she gets herself a glass of iced tea from the refrigerator. “There aren’t any other werewolves in town besides the pack, right?”

“There are a few omegas,” Chris says, glancing up from the paperwork that he’s doing.

“Any my age?” Allison asks.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

Allison gives an innocent shrug. She doesn’t want to tell her father that she’s starting to get a funny feeling about Scott. That _nobody_ is that good at bowling. Or at least, nobody goes from terrible to excellent in that short amount of time. There have been a couple of other odd things, too. Like the way he calmed down the dog at the vet’s office, after she hit it with her car. The way he offered her a pen after she had complained about forgetting hers, far out of his earshot. Coincidences, maybe. Or maybe not. “Just thought I could talk to them about getting the bite or not,” she says.

Chris stands up and squeezes her shoulder on his way to the refrigerator for a drink. “Remember, it’s your choice. You don’t have to get it if you don’t want.”

“I know,” she says, and she does. He’s reinforced it constantly over her life. “I’ve just been thinking about it more lately. Especially now that I have a boyfriend. Who . . . I mean, we’ve only been on two dates, so he’s not a serious boyfriend, but I kind of want him to be? So I don’t know the right time to tell him ‘hey, my whole family is werewolves, I’m sort of thinking about being a werewolf too’.”

“Ah,” Chris says. He shakes his head a little. Allison knows that he and Victoria were an arranged marriage and barely knew each other at the time of their wedding, so she supposes he probably doesn’t know much about the subject. She’s infinitely grateful that he’s always made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t plan on going down that road with her. That she’ll be free to marry whoever she wants.

Sometimes she wonders exactly why her father strays so far from so many pack traditions, while at the same time being so devoted to the Argent code. “Your father is a complicated man,” Victoria said, when Allison asked her. But Allison actually thinks it’s actually pretty simple. She thinks that her father hates _his_ father, and it’s caused him to distance himself a great deal from the pack and a lot of the things that go with it. Arranged marriages matter to prestigious packs like the Argents. They aren’t as important to a human girl who’s basically the daughter of two omegas.

“You know,” Chris says, jolting her out of her thoughts, “you told me that you were going to marry Scott when you were six years old.”

“Da-ad,” she says, blushing. “I don’t think I can be held accountable for that.”

Chris shrugs, but he’s smiling at her. “Why don’t you have Scott over to dinner some time next week? Talk to your mom about it.”

“I think meeting the family is post-third-date material,” Allison says.

“Okay, sometime the week after that,” Chris agrees.

“Okay. I’ll talk to her about it.” Allison stands on her toes and gives her father a kiss on the cheek. “Mwah. I’m going to bed. G’night, Dad!”

“Good night, sweetheart,” Chris says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Three days later, Scott wakes up in the forest feeling like he’s been through a wringer. It’s the worst he’s felt since getting bitten in the first place, and he has no idea why. He sits up and tries to push a hand through his hair. Pain immediately screams its way through his shoulder and arm. He looks down at it and sees mottled bruises up the entire length of his upper arm. He rotates his shoulder carefully and lets out a gasp of pain.

“Weird,” is Stiles’ opinion, when Scott hobbles into the Stilinski house. Cora’s in the shower, and the sheriff has already left for work, so they’re safe for the moment. “I mean, not the injury itself, that’s a handprint,” Stiles says, carefully tracing the outline on Scott’s bicep. “So it looks like someone really strong grabbed you by the arm and then wrenched you around that way. If you can still move it, it’s not dislocated.”

“But why isn’t it healing?” Scott says, asking the question on both their minds. “Everything else that’s happened since, you know, werewolf . . . it’s healed within a matter of minutes. Why is this different?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I’ve found a lot of interesting stuff in my research, but not that.” He takes a bite of cereal and says with his mouth full, “Dad left early this morning. I think there was another murder. What do you remember about last night?”

Scott searches back for it. He gets little flashes and glimpses in the dream he had, but nothing really specific. “I don’t know.”

“The guy who’s killing people, did he hurt you?” Stiles asks. “I mean, you were trying to stop him, right? Did he thrash you?”

“No. I don’t think so. I remember . . .” Scott closes his eyes for a few minutes. Stiles continues to eat his cereal, letting him work through his memories. “Someone . . . was angry at me. I remember . . . someone with red eyes. Like the first night. I guess that must be the person who bit me, right? And they said I was useless. That they might as well have turned a baby.”

“Do you remember anything about them?” Stiles asks, careful to stay quiet, not to interrupt Scott’s trance.

“Just the eyes. And they were bigger, and, uh, hairy. Like a werewolf, a _real_ one, the kind you might see in movies or something.”

Stiles makes a noise. “Maybe that’s something you can do as you become more powerful. Or like, learn to do over time. I dunno.”

“Me neither,” Scott says gloomily. The shower upstairs turns off, and he looks at the ceiling. “Shit. I’ve gotta go. Cora’ll have too many questions if she finds me here.”

“Yeah, and she’s already asked enough of them,” Stiles replies.

Scott grimaces a little in agreement and heads for the door. He jogs home. It’s only about a mile, and that’s easy enough for him now. He lets himself in through the back, moving quietly and trying to remember what shift his mother was working. The house is empty and quiet. He ducks upstairs and gets into the shower, then creeps into his room to get dressed. A long sleeved shirt hides the bruises quite nicely, and he goes downstairs for breakfast only a few minutes later than usual.

“You were out late last night,” Derek says, and Scott nearly trips over his own feet.

“I stayed over at Stiles’,” he says.

Derek stares hard at him. “On a school night?”

“We had a project to do,” Scott says, hiding his upper half in the refrigerator as he roots around for the orange juice. He can’t hold back a noise of pain.

“You okay?” Derek asks, frowning, as he reaches for the cereal in the cabinet with a cringe.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Scott says.

Derek watches him another minute, then stands up and gets a mug of coffee. Without warning, he lays a hand on Scott’s sore shoulder. Scott lets out an involuntary yelp of pain. “What happened?” Derek asks, pulling the collar of his shirt down to examine the edge of the bruises.

“Nothing,” Scott says. “Jackson pushed me around during lacrosse, you know, he’s still pissed about how well I did at the tryouts.”

He doesn’t understand why, but intense relief flits across Derek’s face. “I’ll get you some ice,” he says, heading for the freezer.

“No, I’m fine, really,” Scott says. “It’s just sore.” He starts shoveling cereal in his mouth. That doesn’t stop Derek from wrapping some ice up in a towel and pressing it against his shoulder. After a few minutes, the numbness sets in and starts to feel good.

“Have you taken anything?” Derek asks.

“Oh, uh, I took some Tylenol yesterday but I was kind of hoping it’d feel better this morning.”

Derek takes a drink of his coffee. “Try Advil or Aleve instead,” he says. “They’re anti-inflammatory drugs. They’ll work better on something like this.” He regards Scott for another minute, then says, “I’ll get you some.” He disappears into the bathroom without another word. “You sure you’re okay for school?”

“Geez, yeah, it’s just a sore shoulder, Captain Concern,” Scott says.

Derek scowls at him. “Well, excuse me for being worried about my little brother,” he says, and then gives Scott a thorough noogie.

“Ow ow leggo!” Scott says, laughing as he struggles. “Ah, fuck, ow,” he adds, as his shoulder twists a little.

Derek lets him go. “Sorry.”

“Nah, no worries,” Scott says. He scoops the last of his cereal into his mouth and then downs two Advil with the last of his orange juice. “I gotta go, I’m gonna be late.”

“I’ll drive you,” Derek says. “You shouldn’t be biking with your shoulder hurt like that.”

“Oh, thanks,” Scott says. Then he sees a priceless opportunity to tease his big brother and says, “Sure you don’t just want to see Stiles?”

“What? Shut up,” Derek says, flushing pink. “Three dinners a week is quite enough with that goofball.”

Scott grins but keeps quiet after that, because he knows that Derek can be, well, sensitive about that sort of thing. Derek’s never gone on a single date in Scott’s recollection. Sometimes he thinks Derek isn’t interested at all, but sometimes he catches Derek staring at Stiles while he’s wrapped up in something else and won’t notice. He’s pretty sure that his big brother’s crush on Stiles is just as enormous as Stiles’ in the reverse. Someday, he vows, he’s going to get the two of them to stop pining for each other and go on an actual date.

For now, he has chemistry to worry about. Derek drops him off at school on his way to the college for the day, and he immerses himself in his studies. The Advil has helped his shoulder, so concentrating isn’t that difficult. At least, not because of his shoulder. If he finds himself staring across the room at Allison a lot, well, that’s only to be expected, right? Their second date wasn’t perfect, given that Jackson was there, but it was a lot better than their first. He’ll have to ask her out on a real date, he thinks, the kind where they go to a restaurant with actual food and a movie and it can’t possibly be called ‘hanging out’.

“You wanna come over to my place and study?” Allison asks him as they’re heading to lunch. “We’ve got that big history test next week. And grammar quiz on Friday.”

“Oh, uh, study?” Scott says. “Sure?”

“Good,” she says, with an impish smile, before she kisses him on the cheek and waves over to Lydia as she heads for their table. Stiles is looking at him with an expression of awe, like he was just asked to dinner at the White House. Scott has to endure a thorough lecture on why ‘come over and study’ has absolutely nothing to do with studying and how if he, Scott McCall, does not seize the opportunity to get to second base with that girl, Stiles will disown him forever.

“How else will I ever know what it’s like?” he asks, only half joking.

“I’m pretty sure second base with a girl is pretty different from second base with a guy,” Scott says right back, “so why would you even be that interested?”

“Hey, I’m flexible,” Stiles says. “Lydia’s pretty. Maybe I’ll steal her from her jerk boyfriend.”

“And maybe pigs will fly,” Scott says, rolling his eyes.

Stiles shrugs and starts talking about something else, and for a little while, Scott is swept up along in it. It’s not until his last class of the day that Jackson jostles him, and his shoulder starts aching again. He’s determined not to let it bother him. He has much more important things to do. Unfortunately for him, Allison notices the stiff way he’s holding himself pretty much immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning at him in concern.

“Nothing,” Scott says, pasting a fake smile on his face. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

“I really don’t think you are,” Allison says, and he can’t hide the wince when she puts her hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurt,” she says.

“No, I just bruised my shoulder at lacrosse, I – ”

“I think you’d better come with me,” Allison says, and Scott wants to argue, but she’s taking charge in a way that’s very difficult to argue with, especially because his arm really does hurt and that’s making it difficult to concentrate. She has him by the hand on his good arm and is towing him out to the parking lot. Two minutes later they’re in her car; twelve minutes after that, they’re at the Argent house.

“Dude, I haven’t even met your parents yet, I mean, not officially,” Scott protests. “You can’t spring it on me like this! My mom’s a nurse, if you really think I need my shoulder checked out – ”

“This isn’t about your shoulder, Scott,” Allison says, and with that enigmatic remark she’s out of the car, leaving him no real choice but to follow. He cringes a little as he goes into the spotless foyer of the beautiful house and she calls out, “Dad? Are you home?”

“In the kitchen, honey,” a male voice calls back, and Scott is really, really thinking about bolting when Chris Argent comes into the foyer, holding a glass of water. He gives Scott a friendly nod and smile and then does a total double take. “Jesus Christ. Scott?”

“I’m fine,” Scott says automatically. “And uh, you know, technically you’ve met me before, back when – ”

“Yes, but you weren’t a _werewolf_ then,” Chris bites out.

Allison breathes a sigh of relief while Scott stares at him in shock. “So I was right? Jesus, I was worried, I didn’t know what to think, but I – ”

“Whoa, wait, back up,” Scott blurts out. “You know about werewolves?”

“Dad’s from a family of werewolves,” Allison says, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been around them since I was born.”

“Are you – ”

“No, I’m a genetic fluke,” she says, smiling at him. “Come on, come sit down in the living room, okay? We can _help_ you, Scott.”

Dumbfounded, Scott allows himself to be pulled into the other room and gently shoved down onto the sofa. He watches nervously as Chris paces back and forth around the room, clearly trying to put his thoughts in order. Finally, he turns to Scott and says, “Who’s your alpha?”

“Alpha?” Scott asks nervously.

“You don’t even – ” Chris draws in a breath and lets it out. “Okay. Let’s back up. When were you bitten, and how did it happen?”

Scott isn’t really thrilled with the idea of telling that sordid little tale, beginning with such stupidity on his part, but Allison is pressing a drink and a couple pills into his hands, and then putting an ice pack on his shoulder, and it comes spilling out. He tells them about the weird dreams and the people who have been dying in the woods and how he’s afraid that he might be hurting people.

“Does anybody else know about this?” Chris asks.

“Just Stiles,” Scott says.

“Your brother?” Chris asks.

“Derek? What, no, I didn’t tell Derek.” Scott chews on his lower lip. “I think he knows something weird is going on, but I haven’t said anything.”

“Hnh,” Chris says. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says. He’s been trying to remember all day, but he’s not getting much more. “Last night, I – I had another dream. I was running through the forest. Someone knocked me down. Two people were fighting, and I – I got between them. I’m not sure which one of them I was trying to help, or if I was just trying to stop the fight. The one guy knocked me down and then – I don’t know, I didn’t see. The other guy was dead when I looked up and the first guy had run off. Then there was this, this big werewolf, much bigger than me, telling me I was useless and dragging me around a bit. That’s all I remember. Any other time I’ve been hurt, it’s healed right away. I don’t know why this is different.”

Chris comes over and inspects the bruises, gently rotates his arm in its socket, prompting a gasp of pain. “Wounds from alphas don’t heal the same way.”

“There’s that word again, alpha,” Scott says.

Allison sits down next to him and rubs at his knee, which at least redirects his attention from the pain in the shoulder. “It’s werewolf hierarchy. The alpha is like the boss werewolf. He or she has a bunch of underling werewolves, and those are betas. A werewolf without a pack is omega.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So a beta can heal most injuries, but not if they’re from an alpha?”

“Right,” Allison says, with an encouraging nod. “And only an alpha can make other werewolves. So . . .”

Chris’ jaw is set in an unhappy expression. “There’s only one alpha on this territory,” he says, “and my father, despite some faults, has never been about turning people against their will. He’s actually very selective about the people he allows into his pack. Which means that whoever turned Scott was someone else. A rogue alpha.” He sets the ice pack back onto Scott’s shoulder. “As the alpha of this territory, it’s my father’s job to handle this, so I’ll speak with him. Scott, your shoulder should be fine in a day or two, just take it easy, no heavy lifting, no lacrosse.”

“Right,” Scott says. “But – what do I do? I mean, what about the dreams, about the dead people? Am I – I seem to be trying to break up the fights in the dreams, but I don’t know why.”

“I’m not sure either,” Chris says. He lets out a breath and seems to suddenly notice how frightened Scott is. “Your alpha is calling you out against your will. It’s something that can happen with a particularly strong-willed alpha, especially among their newly turned betas. You need to learn how to control your wolf. Then he or she won’t be able to do it anymore.”

“Oh – okay,” Scott says, and looks at Chris with a hopeful puppy expression.

Chris sighs again. “Okay.” He sits down in a chair across from them. “It’s about finding something that you can anchor yourself with. So you can stay yourself when the change takes you. Something you can focus on.”

Scott glances sideways at Allison. “A couple times I’ve been starting to change because I was angry, or excited, and I heard your voice, and it calmed me right down.”

With a grimace, Chris says, “It’s not good to have a single person as your anchor. And yes, I’d say the same thing even if it wasn’t my daughter. It’s because if something happens to that one person, if you lose your anchor, it can have devastating effects. Wolves have gone feral and never come back from it. Most wolves anchor themselves using their pack.”

“Do you?” Scott asks.

“My pack – my family.” Chris reaches out and squeezes Allison’s wrist lightly. “Because they’re important to me. And I would do anything to keep them safe. Do you think you can use your family to anchor yourself the same way?”

Scott thinks of Stiles’ boundless enthusiasm and help over the past few weeks, of Derek’s worried frown as he stares at Scott from across the room, of his mother’s warm laugh and warmer embrace. He nods. “Yeah, I, I think so.”

“Okay.” Chris checks his watch. “I have things I need to do. Moonrise is about ten PM. Can you be back here then?”

Scott nods. “Yeah. I’ll find a way.”

“Good.” Chris stands up and leaves the room.

“I guess – I should go?” Scott says, feeling awkward.

Allison’s eyes sparkle. “Why? C’mon, I’ll show you my room.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

 

_then_

 

Peter glanced down as his phone rang and smirked a little at the name on the caller ID. He picked up and tucked it underneath his ear. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need to see you.” As usual, Chris sounded like he was only admitting this under pain of death. “Meet me at ten.”

“That’s so far away,” Peter said, sighing wistfully. “Are you sure it has to wait that long? I could – ” he began to suggest, but there was a click. Chris had already hung up. “Spoilsport,” Peter remarked to his phone, and went back to what he was doing. He felt a little jumpy, nervous, although he wouldn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t often that Chris called and asked to see him. Peter usually just showed up whenever he wanted, which annoyed the werewolf to no end.

Still, he didn’t have to ask where. If Chris wanted privacy, which he obviously did, there was only one place he would go.

Their relationship had never been officially forbidden by either of their families, and Peter wasn’t precisely sure who knew and who didn’t. Eloise knew, he was sure, and so had his father Patrick. Talia knew, of course, although all she ever did was roll her eyes when it came up. He thought that Sean suspected, but Jocelyn and Kayla seemed clueless. He was sure that Gerard and Mirielle _didn’t_ know, and was equally sure that Chris was keen to keep it that way. Kate obviously knew, but whatever Chris had done to keep her from talking, it seemed to have worked.

Either way, they weren’t about to _advertise_ it, and that meant that they had to keep things on the down low. Given the otherworldly senses of a werewolf, it made sense to put some space between them and their families. There was a cheap hotel on the edge of town that they had frequented quite a number of times during their college years. It was that or the treehouse, and given that it was going to be in the twenties tonight, the hotel was much more hospitable.

Peter got there first, got a room, and settled down to wait. He knew that Chris would be able to find him, and sure enough, there was a knock at the door a few minutes later. He opened the door a crack and leaned against it. “What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” he asked.

“You,” Chris replied, and Peter let out a snort of laughter and stood back to let him in. Chris shut the door, did the bolt and chain, then turned around to face Peter. “We need to talk.”

“That sounds dire,” Peter said, feigning amusement to hide the hint of nerves.

Chris sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair. “I’m getting married.”

Out of all the possibilities, that certainly wasn’t what Peter had expected to come out of his mouth. He was so startled that all he said in reply was, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “It’s been arranged by my parents. You know how it is.”

“True,” Peter said, and he supposed that he had known, if only subconsciously, that it was going to happen someday. That was the way of werewolf packs, to keep the packs growing, stable, mix in new blood. It wasn’t optional, and it was almost always arranged by the parents. A love match would happen occasionally, but it was rare. “Have you met her?”

Chris shook his head. “I’ve talked to her on the phone, that’s all. She seems nice enough. Her name’s Victoria.”

“Victoria McClelland?” Peter asked, and Chris nodded. “That’s quite a score your parents made for you. Good family, big pack.”

“I guess,” Chris said, sounding unenthused. He rubbed a hand through his hair. “But this changes things, Peter. I’m going to have a wife, before long, children. I won’t dishonor my wife by sleeping with someone else.”

“My _God_ , Christopher, we need to take that stick out of your ass and get my cock in there instead,” Peter said, and Chris scowled at him. “Doesn’t being so honorable ever get _tiresome_?”

“Of course it does,” Chris snapped. “You think I wanted this? You think – oh, you shithead,” he said, seeing that he had fallen into Peter’s trap when the hunter smirked.

“You want me,” Peter sing-songed. “You admitted it. No take-backs.”

Chris grabbed him and threw him towards the bed. Peter allowed this, still laughing. Before another moment had passed, they were kissing, and Chris was pressing him down into the mattress with his hands locked around Peter’s wrists hard enough to leave bruises. “Ah, ah, easy,” Peter said breathlessly, and Chris growled at him.

“I’m serious,” Chris said. “This is the last time.”

“You’ve said that before,” Peter said, leaning up to bite at Chris’ ear.

“I mean it this time.”

“You’ve said that before, too,” Peter said, laughing. He hooked his leg around Chris’ knee and flipped them over so he was on top. “Admit it. I’m irresistible.”

“You’re an egomaniacal little bastard,” Chris told him.

“Get over yourself, Christopher,” Peter said. “You called me _here_ so you could tell me you were getting married? You didn’t tell me over the phone or have me meet you at a café? You called me _here_ because you wanted a goodbye fuck, and therefore I’m entitled to think whatever I want about my irresistibility.”

“Would you fucking shut up?” Chris asked, grabbing Peter by the front of his shirt and pulling him down for another kiss.

“Make me,” Peter said against his mouth, and Chris did.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The preparations for a werewolf mating ceremony were so involved that the things considered less important, like the bride and groom actually meeting each other, were often delayed until quite late in the proceedings. Chris met Victoria two days before the ceremony was scheduled, at the formal dinner when she and a large section of her pack arrived in town.

Even then, it was hardly a meeting. They were introduced by their respective mothers, and shook hands, and then wound up seated at different ends of a long table. Pack hierarchy superseded any emotional overtones. The two alphas were at opposite ends of said table, with their respective right and left hands by their side, and the rest of their packs filling in.

It was annoying at first, but then Chris realized he actually preferred it that way. Both he and Victoria could observe each other without having to directly interact. The alphas dictated the conversation and occasionally asked the two of them questions, which they of course answered.

So over the course of the meal he learned that Victoria was one of four siblings, three of whom were girls, and she was the youngest. She enjoyed music and baking but had also gotten a reputation as one of the better fighters in her family. She was a born wolf although her father was not – strains of human born children ran in the McClelland family, a few cropping up in each generation.

Peter’s guess that his family had made a good ‘score’ for him, as insulting as it was, was quickly revealed not to be true. Chris sat there and tried to smile but secretly burned with the unfairness of it all. The McClelland family was a big pack, this was true, but he – he was the oldest male of his generation in the Argent pack, he should have gotten someone _important_ as his mate. Not the third-daughter of a lesser-wolf, an obvious cast-off from her own pack.

It was amusing in a dark sort of way, because he didn’t believe in any of that political garbage. He would have been happier marrying for love, or not marrying at all. But while the politics might not be important to him, they _were_ important to everyone else. This was a deliberate slap in the face from his parents, and the fact that they were dressing up this wedding like it was a big occasion was only grinding salt into the wound.

On the other hand, he felt like he could relate better to Victoria after this. She had been stiff and unfriendly so far, hardly even looking in his direction. Now he could understand why. She probably thought that he was going to be a gigantic asshole about this entire thing, and although he had the right, it wasn’t her fault any more than it was his.

After dinner, he offered to walk her out to her car, and she accepted with the same removed civility she had treated him with so far. He waited until they were as out of earshot as possible and then said in a quiet voice, “You know, I’d never thought about it before. Having a human child. It might be interesting. They could make the choice for themselves.”

Victoria blinked up at him, so startled that her eyes momentarily flashed gold. “I had never thought about it that way.”

“My guess is that not many werewolves have,” Chris said.

Victoria gave a little nod, then asked, abruptly, “Do you like blueberry muffins?”

“Yeah,” Chris said.

“I’ll bring you some tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

Without another word, she got into her car.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Talia woke to the sound of noise in the kitchen, she knew that there was a ninety-nine percent chance that it was Peter. Their perimeter security was formidable; if someone had gotten that far, she would likely be dead by now. But she curled her hand around her favorite crossbow that she kept by the edge of the bed as she padded silently down the stairs.

It was Peter, making himself some tea. Talia set down the crossbow as he glanced over his shoulder. “Trouble sleeping?” she asked. It was unusual of him lately. The days of their late-night talks in the kitchen were long since past. Peter had been relaxed, even easy-going, in the past year since arriving home from New York City.

“Mm,” was all Peter said in reply.

Talia knew what was at the heart of this; how could she not? The imminent marriage of Chris Argent and Victoria McClelland had made the supernatural rumor train like everything else. They had ramped up security because of all the werewolves that would be visiting Beacon Hills. But she said nothing, waiting to see if Peter wanted to talk.

Almost five minutes had passed while she made herself some tea and put together a sandwich. Finally, Peter said, “Do you know what he said to me?”

“What?” Talia asked, sitting down across from him.

“He said ‘we probably shouldn’t see each other for a while’.” Peter’s voice was raw with anger and pain. “He calls me up for a goodbye fuck and then he leaves me with _that_. Son of a bitch. I should cut his throat.”

Talia swallowed her own anger, as it absolutely wouldn’t help the situation. “Apparently he has a very poor opinion of his own self-control,” she said.

That got Peter to smile a little. “Well, to be fair, there has always been that . . . feeling between the two of us. That pull. I myself have found it very difficult to keep my hands off him.” He took a drink of his tea and rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you remember the Kent brothers, up in the Dakotas?”

“Yes, of course,” Talia said. “What about them?”

“Last winter when they came through, they mentioned that they were putting together a mobile hunting patrol to clean up some of the rogue omegas and ferals who live up north. Montana, the Dakotas, that area.” Peter took another drink. “They asked me if I wanted to join them. Last night I called them and told them I did.”

Talia studied him for a minute, then nodded. “That sounds like a good move for you. You’ve always had itchy feet.”

“You’ll be all right here, without me?”

“Might have to hire some help,” Talia said, “but yes, I can manage. Just make sure there’s a way for me to get in touch with you, if I need to.”

“I will.” Peter stood.

“Peter,” Talia said. “Are you leaving because he asked you to? Or because you want to?”

Peter thought about it. “I’m leaving because . . . I can’t stand to be here for a while.”

Talia nodded and said, “Just don’t be a stranger. Not to me.”

“Never,” Peter agreed, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

As it turned out, Victoria’s opinion of the mating ceremony was very similar to Chris’: a lot of pomp and furor to little purpose. At one point during one of the more melodramatic speeches, he caught her rolling her eyes so hard that he was surprised they didn’t pop out of her head and go bouncing down the hall. He had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing. She gave him a sharp look, and then they had to spend the entire rest of the rehearsal not looking at each other for fear that they would both become hysterical.

At the dinner afterwards, they were finally seated together and were able to talk, but both of them were keenly aware that there were many listening ears, so they kept things polite and uninteresting. It frustrated Chris, but then, he supposed, they had the rest of their lives to get to know each other.

Mating ceremonies were only passingly similar to weddings. Vows were spoken, and a kiss was exchanged, and that was about where the similarities ended. They also involved the exchanging of blood not only between the mated pair but both their alphas, oaths of alliance, blessings for all of their future children, since progeny was the real point of a mating.

The celebration was the real point of it, with dancing and fighting and contests of strength and skill. Mating ceremonies were almost always done on a full moon, and the wolves could sometimes get out of control. It wasn’t unheard of for the mating to be consummated right there on the forest floor while other werewolves egged them on. Fortunately for Chris, both his pack and the McClellands considered such a thing an unseemly display of poor self-control.

He got through it, somehow. He half-expected Peter to show up and make a nuisance of himself, but there was no sign of the hunter or any of his family. Chris knew that Talia had offered to provide ‘security’ for the wedding, but Eloise had turned her down. The help was “unnecessary”, she said, and would make them appear weak in front of rival packs.

The tension at this ceremony was higher than others he had been to. Some of the Argents, not understanding the message Gerard was sending, were insulted by the choice of Victoria. Chris heard several comments about human members in ‘lesser packs’. Victoria handled everything with a tight-lipped smile even though she clearly wanted to start murdering people.

Several fights break out, and although that wasn’t at all unusual, the caliber of violence is atypical. Chris put up with it for an hour before he simply turned to Victoria and said, “You want to get out of here?” and she nodded.

It was a breach of protocol, but he was beyond caring. Let Gerard call him on the carpet, let everyone whisper behind his back. Victoria was his wife now, and he wasn’t going to subject her to the muttered slights against her character.

It was only once they got back to the Argent’s compound that he realized he had now opened a new barrel of worms – one he had tried to think about as little as possible over the last several weeks, since the engagement had been announced. He had his own house on the compound now – the key had been given to him at the ceremony – and it was clean and quiet.

“Thank God that’s over,” Victoria said, dropping into a chair.

“Yeah.” Chris checked the refrigerator. It was fully stocked, so he pulled out a soda. “You want a drink?”

“There should be some sparkling water in there,” Victoria said.

“So there is.” Chris poured them each a glass and held his out. “To us,” he said.

Victoria smiled slightly. “To us,” she agreed, and clinked her glass against his.

They drank in silence. It was late, past midnight. Chris was exhausted. There was no excuse he could give for not going to bed, but he didn’t know what would happen once they got there. Forcing a smile and hoping that she couldn’t smell his reluctance, he gestured to the hallway and said, “Shall we?”

Victoria nodded and they went up the stairs, into the bedroom. It was a nice place. All the furniture was new. There weren’t a lot of decorations; that would be for Chris and Victoria to choose for themselves. The result was that it looked sterile to him. He felt his discomfort with the situation growing.

Victoria was the one who broke the silence. “I probably won’t be at all good at this,” she said abruptly, turning to face him as he shut the bedroom door. “I don’t have much practice. Or interest.”

Chris blinked at her, torn between relief and further awkwardness. “Well, we – we don’t have to. If you don’t want to.”

“It’s expected,” she said, with a shrug. “It’s not that I find the idea repelling. Just not particularly appealing, either. I’ve never been interested in sex. I can remember when all my sisters were flinging themselves at every eligible beta within a fifty mile radius and I couldn’t figure out why.”

“Oh,” Chris said. He glanced at the door to make sure it was shut, then remembered that he was in his own house, that Kate wasn’t outside eavesdropping. He pushed a hand through his hair. This was his wife now. His partner in everything. He was going to have to trust her. “Well. As it happens.” He cleared his throat. “I’m gay.” It was the first time he had ever said it out loud, and he waited for the shoe to drop.

Victoria blinked at him, then said, deadpan, “This is going to be challenging, then.”

They stared at each other for a minute. Victoria broke first, just a twitch of her lips, and then they were both sprawled on the bed, laughing hysterically. Every time Chris thought they were going to calm down, they would catch each other’s gaze and go off into more gales of laughter.

Finally, they were both too exhausted to laugh anymore. “You know, I’m glad it was you,” Victoria said. “I was all set to hate you and then you turned out to be a decent person.”

“I’m glad it was you, too,” Chris said. “I mean . . . I know that we still have to do what we have to do. But . . . we’ll get it figured out. And at least we can be friends.”

Victoria nodded. “How about we start by getting some sleep?”

“That sounds like a great idea to me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It took them a while to work up to it. Victoria suggested that they defer sex to the days of the month that she was most likely to get pregnant, since that was their real goal. Then they fumbled their way through it. It wasn’t anything to write home about, but it got the job done. Or at least, he hoped it did. He supposed that time would tell.

“Do you have a lover?” Victoria asked, a few days later.

“Uh.” Chris flushed pink despite himself. “Yeah. Well, I did. Up until the engagement.”

Victoria sipped her tea and said, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re discreet about it.”

Chris felt something jump in his stomach. He hadn’t seen Peter in three weeks, and, well. That was a long time for him lately. It didn’t help that the half-hearted, mechanical sex he’d been having with Victoria was making him incredibly horny. “Are you sure?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“It’s fine,” Victoria said. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to deny you that.”

Chris wasn’t sure if her opinion would hold up if she knew that his lover was a hunter. But he decided against mentioning it. She seemed very reasonable, all things considered, but there were some secrets he didn’t trust anyone with. “I’ll . . . think about that. Thanks.”

‘Think about it’ rapidly turned into ‘become so turned on just thinking about it that he can’t focus on anything else’. He called Peter twice, but didn’t get an answer, and eventually decided to go see if he was at home. He didn’t want to call the Hale house – it always got awkward if Sean or Jocelyn picked up, since he suspected very strongly that they didn’t approve. Peter, of course, didn’t care in the slightest, but Chris tried to avoid them when at all possible.

There was only one car in the driveway when he got there, which was Talia’s old Corvette. Hoping that she might know where he could find Peter, he knocked on the door. A moment later he heard the deadbolt turn, but then a sharp voice from inside. “Derek! Check to see who it is _before_ unlocking!” There was a brief scuffle, and then Talia opened the door. “Hi, Chris. Sorry, I’m trying to start the kids early on the safety rules. You know how it is.”

Chris nodded. Peter had showed him some of the perimeter security that the Hale property had, and it was impressive to say the least. Derek was nearly five now, which was plenty old enough to know the rules. “Hey, little man,” he said to Derek, who made a face at him and then scampered back into the house.

“He’s going to be a spoiled brat,” Talia said, smiling after him fondly. “What brings you here?”

“Well, I called Peter, but he didn’t pick up. I thought you might know where he is.”

“Oh, sure,” Talia said. “Idaho.”

Chris blinked. “Idaho. On a hunting trip?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Talia asked. “Obviously he didn’t. Come on in.” She stood back from the door, swinging it shut behind him and doing the bolt. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Chris was frowning as Talia filled a mug and set it down in front of him.

“Peter took a job with a mobile group of hunters who work up north,” Talia says, dumping cream and sugar into her own mug before sitting down across from him. “You know how he gets itchy feet.”

“Yeah, I do,” Chris said. “When is he going to be back?”

“I have no idea. Neither does he. They’ll work up there until there’s no more work to be done and then probably head east through Montana and the Dakotas. He’s probably going to be gone a lot more often than he’s here for the next few years.”

“Jesus,” Chris said. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving.”

Talia sighed. “Well, the impression I got from him was that he was trying to actually respect your feelings. He knew you would be busy with your pack and your wife and hopefully children soon. He didn’t want to be a distraction. The job was a good offer for him. It’s going to pay well and keep him occupied and on the move. He’ll be back on occasion, but probably not for a while.”

Chris’ jaw tensed. “If he wanted to respect my feelings, he could have tried actually asking me about it.”

“Uh, I believe he did,” Talia said, her mouth tightening. “Something about how ‘this is the last time, I really mean it, it’s probably better if we don’t see each other for a while’?”

“That was before I – wait, how do you know that?” Chris asked, flushing pink.

“You think you’re Peter’s only confidant?” Talia asked, now clearly amused. “C’mon. You dumped him and you thought he wouldn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t – well, I did, but – it wasn’t my choice.”

Talia sighed. “Chris, you always have a choice to make. Was it unreasonable of him to hope that you would defy your father’s wishes and refuse to get married so you could continue to have a relationship with him? Sure. Which is why he never asked you to do that. But that doesn’t change the fact that he maybe hoped a little that you would.”

Chris looked away. “You make it sound like he wanted me to sweep him off his feet and ride off into the sunset together.”

Talia’s voice started to rise in anger. “I make it sound like my brother, despite what you might think of him, has God damned feelings. I make it sound like my brother was in love with you.”

Chris scoffed automatically. “He wasn’t – ”

“For God’s sake, Chris,” Talia said, “are you really that dense? I get that you were maybe sheltered as a child and your idea of healthy relationships is probably pretty skewed, but for crying out loud.”

“You think I’m the stupid one?” Chris growled. “Peter always just – took what he wanted. Did as he pleased. Why should I have thought I was any different? If he had really been in love with me, he would have told me and damn the consequences, because that was the sort of thing he _did_. That was the one thing I could always count on with him.”

“Maybe you were just the one thing he wasn’t willing to risk losing,” Talia said quietly.

Chris studied the liquid in his mug. “Maybe if he had said something, I would have made a different choice.”

“Would you have?” Talia asked.

Chris was quiet for a long minute. “I don’t know.”

Talia sighed. “It’s done, Chris. And maybe it’s better this way anyway. Dad always talked about it like, he thought if you and Peter could really _be_ something, maybe it would bring about a real peace between our families. But that’s never going to happen and we both know it. More likely that it would have started a real war.” She stood up and began to rinse out her mug. “Go home to your wife, Chris. Next time I talk to Peter, I’ll tell him you stopped by to say hello. It’s all you’re going to get from me.”

“All right.” Chris stood. “Thank you, at least, for that much.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mildly NSFW. =D

 

_now_

 

Derek waves to the librarian as he settles down in his usual corner at the college library. He’s spent so many days there, it practically feels like a second home. He just finished up with his nine AM class, and now he has a break long enough for a good hour in the library and then lunch, before his next class. He eats on campus most days, mostly because it’s too much of a pain in the neck to go home.

He barely remembers any of what was discussed in his last class, which was a Greek history class and one of his favorites. He’s got some pages of notes and a few doodles, but mainly what he’s thinking about is Scott. Scott and his bruised shoulder. Scott, his little brother, who isn’t a werewolf.

In retrospect, he knew that he had probably acted weird and Scott probably thinks he’s crazy. But he couldn’t deny the relief he had felt as he stood there in the kitchen and stared at the bruises, waiting for the edges of them to recede and gradually disappear. They hadn’t. Scott was _hurt_. He didn’t think he would ever be so happy about his kid brother being in pain.

Intellectually, he’s aware that there are reasons that werewolves don’t heal sometimes. Psychological reasons as well as practical ones. But he’s choosing to ignore that for now. It dramatically lowers the odds of Scott’s werewolfism, and he’ll take whatever he can get.

He shoots a quick text to Cora that says, ‘Scott was nursing a bruised shoulder this morning. Not a werewolf.’

Cora’s in class, but ten minutes later she texts back with, ‘Werewolves don’t always heal.’

‘That’s rly rare,’ Derek replies, not wanting to let his little sister harsh his buzz. Cora, surprisingly, doesn’t press the issue. He goes back to studying, but he feels tense and restless. Not even in a bad way, but he just feels like he would be happier on the move. After another five minutes, he closes the book and gets to his feet.

It’s about a ten minute drive to the nursing home where Peter lives. Derek goes there twice a week, every week. His visits aren’t exactly like clockwork, because it depends on his class schedule, but he gets there when he can. He’ll sit in Peter’s room and read to him for a half an hour, tell him about what’s going on in his life.

Peter loves mysteries, Derek remembers, so over the years he’s worked up a huge collection. He brings Agatha Christie and Tony Hillerman, Ellery Queen and John LeCarre. He reads to Peter because it’s something to do, rather than sitting in blank silence. He can’t ‘chat’ with nobody the way Laura or Cora can.

There are times, a lot of times, when he’s sat there and looked at Peter’s blank face and thought ‘this is stupid’. A lot of times when he’s wondered why he bothers. A sense of duty, a feeling of guilt. That was all. Then the doctor had overheard him saying to Cora, “He doesn’t even know we’re here” and stepped in.

“That’s actually not true,” he said. “He does much better when he has more frequent visitors.”

“Better how?” Derek retorted. “How can you even tell?”

“Well, by the amount of initiative he shows,” Namjoshi said. “Derek, your uncle may never be truly well again. But there are degrees to which he _can_ recover. Take eating, for example. He doesn’t seek out food himself. But if we put it in front of him, generally speaking, he’ll eat without having to be told or fed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Derek said. He brought Peter things sometimes, things that he remembered Peter liking, like peanut butter cups. He would put them on the little table in front of Peter. Usually, ten or twenty minutes later, Peter would reach for them like he was in a dream. “So?”

“So, the fewer visitors he gets, the less likely he is to do things like that,” Namjoshi said. “After Laura left for school, for example, before I had a word with Melissa and she started bringing you twice a week instead of once. We noticed a definite slide backwards in his behavior.” The doctor clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I know it’s difficult for you, seeing your uncle like this. But trust me. He _does_ know you’re here, and you _are_ helping him.”

So Derek comes twice a week and he never begrudges Peter the time. He remembers Peter as the ‘fun’ uncle. He wasn’t around all the time like Uncle Sean or Aunt Kayla or Aunt Jocelyn. He swept into town for a few days once every six months or so, bringing gifts from wherever he had been and outlandish stories about the monsters that he had been fighting. Talia tolerated his antics with a fond smile and Sean disapproved of them, and Sean’s disapproval had only made the children like him more.

Sometimes he sits there and wonders what Peter would say if he could ask him some of the questions that buzz around in his head. Like if he’s doing the right thing in Beacon Hills by monitoring things but staying out of the action. Like if he ever found any evidence on who had killed their family, if he knew about Kate. Like what he should do about the fact that sometimes he finds himself staring at Stiles, entranced by his lips and his moles and his fingers, and he knows that’s oh-so-wrong because Stiles is only sixteen and Stiles deserves so much better. Sometimes he even asks these questions, but Peter never replies.

“So . . . three omegas have been killed,” Derek says, to Peter’s slack expression. “I know them. They’re all thugs for hire, all hangers-on at the Argent pack. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s happening right after Chris Argent got back to town. I just . . . I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how things were between you two. I don’t know if I can trust him.” He considers Peter for a minute. “I guess he’s come to see you a few times, huh? I hope that’s okay. We could say he couldn’t come in. If you wanted. But you’ve gotta tell me, you know?” He taps the spine of the book against the little table. “You look a little better, though,” he says, because he actually does. There’s a little more color in his cheeks than usual, or at least his unburned cheek, where the skin is still intact instead of a mess of scars. “So I guess maybe it’s good that he comes to see you. I don’t know.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “What should I do, Uncle Peter? If someone’s killing off the people who killed our family, then I should just let them, right? I mean, is that how justice works? Or karma?” He pushes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I wish you would just talk to me. Just tell me that much. If I’m doing the right thing or not.”

He’s thought about telling Peter about Kate sometimes. At least that would be someone he could tell. But he has nightmares about the fact that _that_ might be what prompts Peter to come out of his catatonic state. That Peter might wake up if only to tell Derek that he blames him, hates him, that everything is his fault. He can’t do it. Not even to the blank mask.

“So, uh, where were we?” he asks, opening the book. “Chapter four, right? Here we go . . .”

He reads for about half an hour, then closes the book and heads back to school.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

With no way to get in touch with Peter and no idea what to do about Talia’s conclusions, Chris put it aside. He wasn’t at all sure that she was right. The idea of Peter in love was almost laughable. And Talia was right in that it never would have worked. Gerard would have killed them both before allowing them to continue having a relationship, and Chris didn’t think anyone, not even Eloise, would have been able to stop him. In fact, Peter being gone brought a strange sort of relief in that Kate couldn’t dangle him over Chris’ head anymore.

Two months later, Victoria was pregnant, which was a relief to both of them. Time passed, and although he didn’t exactly forget about Peter, he grew accustomed to his absence. He stopped wondering whether or not Peter had left Talia any messages for him, stopped having to resist the urge to drive by the Hale house on the very unlikely chance that he had returned. Peter had been gone before, and they had both survived.

Before long, he had bigger problems. His daughter was born, a beautiful, raven-haired girl that he and Victoria decided to name Allison. He fell in love with her instantly, pledged his entire life to her right there in the delivery room. Everyone who met her was charmed. Even Kate adored her, to the point that Chris actually trusted his sister for the first time in his life, to look out for her.

Then there was Gerard.

Gerard, who took one look at the baby girl and said, in a jocular tone, “Well, Chris, looks like your wife couldn’t quite get the job done, hm?”

Victoria, who had gotten a lot more outspoken when she had realized that Chris was actually her friend, opened her mouth to say something that would probably be unpleasant. Chris wasn’t even sure what Gerard _meant_ , but Kate laughed and said, “C’mon, Dad, she’s just a baby. They can turn her when she gets older.”

Chris glanced down at where Allison was sitting on Kate’s lap, all bright eyes and smiles and curiosity. He knew his daughter was human. He had known that since the moment he first got her scent. He just didn’t care. He had known that it could happen, that humans were sometimes born into Victoria’s family. “I thought we’d wait until she was old enough that she could really understand what the choice meant.”

“And how are we supposed to explain to anyone else that we’ve got a human in our pack?” Gerard asked, still smiling pleasantly.

“I’ll be happy to explain that it’s none of their God damned business,” Chris said.

Gerard looked between the two of them and said, “Pretty dark hair she’s got. Maybe she’s not even yours. Had you thought of that?”

Chris was on his feet and in his father’s face before he could think better of the idea. “She’s my daughter,” he said, “and I’ll thank you not to insult my wife. Now get the hell out of my house.”

The smile fell off Gerard’s face. He turned and said over his shoulder, “Come on, Katie. We’re leaving.”

Kate just laughed and bopped Allison on the nose. “Grandpa’s cranky,” she said to the baby, sotto voce, before handing her back to Victoria. Then she stood, waved blithely to Chris, and followed her father out of the house. For the first time, Chris was glad of Kate’s ability not to be intimidated by anyone or anything. Maybe she could help him talk sense into his father.

But as Allison got older, the tension grew. She fell off the bottom step just after her first birthday, resulting in a trip to the emergency room that would have been entirely unnecessary for a werewolf baby. Even Victoria wavered after that, but Chris held firm. Not only for Allison’s sake, but he knew that giving in on this issue would make Gerard think that he could walk all over them for the rest of their lives. Allison would stay human, he said, and that was the end of the story.

His mother expressed some gentle concern, but quickly saw that Chris wasn’t about to back down. When they got into yet another argument about it, she said to Gerard, “Honey, it’s his daughter, it’s his choice.”

“Other packs are mocking us,” Gerard said. “Saying that I can’t even control my own son.”

“I'm not yours to control,” Chris growled. “I’m a grown man. And you aren’t my alpha.”

“You want to drag Eloise into this?” Gerard said. “Of course she’ll side with you, you’ve always been her little lap dog.”

Any canine expression is a dire insult to a wolf, but Chris swallowed his temper and said evenly, “There’s no ‘this’ for me to drag Eloise into. You’re the one trying to interfere. _You’re_ the one who would have to go to the alpha if you wanted to overrule _my_ decision about _my_ daughter. So unless you’re willing to do that, this discussion is over.”

Gerard let it go after that, but the tension it had caused didn’t go away. Chris and his father could barely be in the same room without harsh words being spoken. Gerard didn’t say anything about turning Allison again, but he always had some complaint or criticism about the way Chris was raising his child. After two-year-old Allison asked, “Why does Grampa hate me?” Chris cut off contact as much as possible.

Kate was still allowed to come visit, because she truly loved her niece, and Allison truly loved her aunt. Sometimes she talked about other things that were going on, but Chris tried to avoid pack politics as much as possible. Mirielle and Gerard were arguing more. Eloise was having to be more heavy-handed about enforcing the Code. One of Chris’ cousins got caught using his superior strength to sexually assault a teenaged girl. Sean Hale had caught him in the act and executed him on the spot. Tension between the two families was at an all-time high. The cousin’s father called for Sean’s head. Talia told him to take a long walk off a short pier. Eloise came down and settled matters and made a strong statement about how violence against humans would not be tolerated.

To attempt to reinforce the truce, Eloise and Talia decided to have a joint meal with the two families. It was summer, so they arranged a picnic. There were games for the children, music and sports for the adults.

The Hales were woefully outnumbered, of course. Jocelyn was still unmarried, without children. Sean and Kayla’s son was an older teenager now, and just as capable as any Hale. Chris had never been exactly sure what the situation was with Talia. She had three children at this point, Cora being about the same age as Allison, but he had never encountered anyone that might be considered a husband. Peter had mentioned once that Talia had neither the time nor the patience for romance, and when she wanted another child she found a serviceable man willing to make a donation with no questions asked.

That left six adult Hales and three children, opposed to nearly fifty werewolves of varying ages. Chris wanted to approve. It was a way that the Hales could show that they weren’t about to be intimidated, and a way for Eloise to challenge her detractors by daring them to defy her in broad daylight. But there was a part of him that was sure it was going to end in disaster.

Then he realized that in addition to the two families, a number of vanilla, not-in-the-know humans had been invited. Work partners of some of the werewolves, friends of friends. Nobody would dare make a move at a gathering like that. It was a clever idea, and not something he would have expected either Talia or Eloise – both of them being somewhat like bulldozers in personality – to come up with.

“Chris, long time no see!” a cheerful voice said, and Melissa walked up with a toddler boy trailing after her. “How are you?”

Chris greeted her with a brief embrace. Allison peeked around his leg and gave the toddler a shy smile. Before he could introduce the two children, another boy wandered over, this one with pale skin and moles and a clear hyperactive streak. “Scotty, Scotty, there’s cake, cake, cake!” he cheered, grabbing the other boy by the wrist and towing them away.

Melissa laughed. “Cake?” Allison asked, looking up at her dad.

“Sure, sweet pea,” he said, and she scampered after the two boys with Chris and Melissa following her slowly. “Scott must be yours,” he said, and she smiled and nodded proudly. “I heard you married Rafael.”

“Yeah, a few years back now,” she said, and didn’t comment on her husband or the state of their marriage. “The other little boy is – oh, Tom will kill me if I even tried to pronounce it. He and Claudia named him some horribly Polish name. Scott just calls him Stiles.” She turned and poked him in the chest as they got some lemonade. “You fell off the face of the planet! I didn’t even know you’d gotten married, let alone had any kids.”

“Sorry,” Chris said. “I was never the best at that sort of thing. But, uh, yeah. Allison is two and a half now.”

They chat for a few minutes while the kids play in the grass and eat their cake. Victoria came over to say hello, and Chris introduced her. “It’s just so good to see you,” Melissa said. “I’ve fallen out of touch with a lot of my old friends. I’m glad Peter decided to pull this together.”

“Peter did?” Chris asked, startled. That explained the subtlety.

Completely missing the reason for his surprise, Melissa said, “Yeah, you didn’t know?” She looked between Chris and Victoria for a few moments as if trying to figure out whether Chris was actually gay or not. “He was over playing with Talia’s kids a few minutes ago.”

“Uh, I think I’ll go say hi,” Chris said. “If you could watch Allison for a while?” he added to Victoria.

“Sure,” she said, giving him a somewhat curious look as he hurried away.

Peter was indeed right where Melissa had said he would be, sitting in a sandbox with Derek and putting a leaf flag on top of the sand castle he had just built. He glanced up as Chris approached, and that crooked smile quirked at his lips. His hair was cut short now, shorter than before so it stood up a little at the front. He’d grown a neat goatee, and Chris’ thoughts were immediately filled with ideas of what that would feel like scraping against his skin.

“Hello, stranger,” Peter said, in a low voice that sent electric shocks up and down Chris’ spine.

“When did you get back into town?” Chris asked, as if that were the relevant question.

“Yesterday,” Peter said. “Talia called me about all of this,” he added, gesturing. “I told her to invite some other couples from the area and that I would come down and provide backup.” He clearly knew what Chris was thinking, because he said, “I’m leaving in the morning. We were in the middle of tracking these underground worm things in Nevada. Nasty suckers. Huge. We feed them dynamite; it’s a literal blast.”

Chris just stared at him, because the only question he could think to ask after that was ‘why are we not having sex yet’ and he was fairly sure that he shouldn’t ask that in front of the children. “We should . . . catch up,” he finally managed to say.

He half-expected Peter to give him the cold shoulder. The fact that he didn’t meant that Talia had probably never told him about the conversation he and Chris had. “The picnic’s until five. We could grab some dinner.”

“Okay,” Chris said. He and Victoria had only brought one car. He’ll have to bring Allison home first. The idea of meeting at a restaurant, of having to wait more than the absolute minimum time before he can kiss Peter, brought actual pain. “I have to take Allison home. Why don’t you grab something to eat and I’ll meet you at the treehouse?”

Peter laughed. “Why there?”

“Privacy,” Chris said. He hesitated, then said, “The situation here . . . how much has Talia told you about it?”

The laughter stopped abruptly. “Enough,” Peter said. There were a lot of obvious reasons why Chris might not want to go anywhere with Peter that he might be seen or overheard. Sex was probably near the bottom of the list, to be honest. “All right. The treehouse it is. Is Pho’s still open, do you know?”

“Yeah, they actually opened a second restaurant, too,” Chris said. He heard Kate calling for him. “I’ll see you then?”

“Sure,” Peter said, and Chris could _feel_ Peter’s gaze on him while he walked away.

He managed to enjoy the rest of the picnic, spacey as he might have felt while he entertained the fantasies of what he’s going to do to Peter and what Peter will do to him. He stopped and said hello to Tom and Claudia. She laughingly tried to teach him how to say their son’s tongue-twister of a name while Tom shook his head and looked like he had a headache. Allison wound up making best friends with Scott and cried when the picnic ended and Chris had to take her home.

“You’ll see him again,” Victoria assured her, tweaking her daughter’s pigtails with a smile. “I didn’t realize you had so many friends in town,” she added, as they drove home. “You never talk about them.”

“High school friends,” Chris said. “We had fallen out of touch. Peter invited them.”

“Yes, this mysterious Peter,” Victoria said. “Who is he?”

“Talia Hale’s younger brother. Probably the most skilled hunter in their family and almost definitely the smartest person I’ve ever met. It was his idea to invite some vanilla mortals to make sure there wasn’t any violence. He’s been away hunting up in the north for the past couple years, but we were part of the same group of friends in high school.” Chris realized that he was talking too much. Victoria was giving him a sideways look, so he changed the subject. “It might be good for Allison to have some friends her age.” She only had two cousins even remotely in her age range, and Chris wasn’t particularly fond of either of their parents.

“Mm,” Victoria said. They got back to the house and she said she was going to give Allison a bath.

“I’m going out for a bit,” Chris said. “I might be late.”

Victoria looked over at him. “Chris, I’m not an idiot,” she said. “I told you that I didn’t mind if you had a lover and I meant it. But is this wise? Given the . . . situation, between the two families? Things aren’t the same now, as they were when you two were younger.”

Since Victoria has obviously figured everything out, Chris didn’t bother trying to prevaricate. “No. It’s probably stupid. But he’s leaving in the morning, so . . . it won’t be anything long-term.”

Victoria studied him for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. Have fun.”

Chris leaned over and kissed her on the temple before leaving. He forced himself to drive at a reasonable speed and find a good place to park the car at the edge of the preserve, rather than behave like an idiot. He still must have gotten there quickly, though, because Peter had only just arrived when he got there. He was setting down two plastic bags that were filled with Styrofoam containers and had a picnic blanket draped over his arm.

The food smelled good, and Chris didn’t even care. He had Peter around the waist and was kissing him before he even said hello, then pinned him up against the tree and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, getting his fill of Peter’s scent. Peter laughed, but his breathing hitched a little when he felt Chris’ teeth scrape against his neck. “Whatever happened to not dishonoring your wife?”

“Victoria said she didn’t mind,” Chris said, getting both hands underneath Peter’s thighs and hoisting him up so he could grind into the cradle of Peter’s hips.

“Holy fuck, Christopher, you have missed me,” Peter breathed out, hands tugging at the back of Peter’s shirt.

“Call me Christopher again,” Chris said, grinding even harder.

Peter complied, canting his hips upwards for a better angle, and Chris rocked into them, sucking a large and impressive bruise onto the side of Peter’s neck until he came. It didn’t take long. Peter laughed at him as he stood there, the muscles in his arms quivering as he slowly eased Peter back to the ground. “A little backed up, were we?” Peter teased.

“You left,” Chris said.

Peter’s gaze became shuttered and distant for a few moments. Then he spread out the picnic blanket and sprawled out onto it attractively, still fully dressed. “You’re not going to leave me hanging, I hope.”

“No.” Chris got down on the blanket with him, rubbing his cheek against Peter’s hip, taking his time drawing the zipper down. He always loved doing this to Peter, taking him apart piece by piece, watching the most composed man he knew come undone underneath his hands and his mouth.

It was a while before they got to the food. Then Peter asked about Victoria and Allison. Chris told him, but he kept it to the good news, didn’t talk about any of the family conflict. He told him about Allison’s first word and her first step. Peter told him about the different monsters he had run across in Montana and the Dakotas. In between stories they would kiss for what felt like hours, grope and moan and rub up against each other like they were teenagers again.

It was nearing dawn before Peter finally said, “Talia told me things are bad here.”

Chris shrugged. “Nothing Eloise and your sister can’t handle. I’ve tried to stay out of it. For Allison’s sake, mostly.”

“Mm,” Peter said. But then he added, “I’m still leaving in the morning, Chris. Me being here would probably only make things worse. I know that Kate at least knows about us. We don’t want to give your family any reason to doubt your loyalty right now.” He paused, then said, “For Allison’s sake.”

Chris nodded. “I know. But don’t stay away so long this time.”

“For Allison’s sake?” Peter asked.

“For mine,” Chris said.

A lot passed between them in that moment, things they knew that they should say out loud but couldn’t, for so many reasons. Then Peter smiled and said, “Well, at least we made it a night to remember.” He got to his feet and fished around in the dim predawn light for his clothing. “My flight leaves in a few hours. I need to go see Talia and get some breakfast.”

“All right,” Chris said, and kissed him goodbye.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

 

_now_

 

Melissa glances up as she heard a familiar voice greet one of the orderlies, and smiles at Tom as he walks in. “Well, fancy seeing you here, stranger,” she says, and he leans over to give her a quick kiss. “What are you doing here this time of day?”

Tom set a bag on the counter and says, “Stiles packed me a lunch. As far as I can tell, it is an alfalfa sandwich and a bag of raw cauliflower.”

“You hate cauliflower,” Melissa says, smiling.

“I thought we might go get something to eat,” Tom says.

“Sure. Give me a few minutes to finish this up.”

Ten minutes later, they were seated at Ruby’s and had cheeseburgers on the way. Melissa’s laughing because she knows that Stiles would have a fit if he caught his father eating something so greasy, and Tom is protesting that he’d be happy to take a middle ground, like a turkey sandwich on wheat bread or something, but Stiles keeps insisting on serving him rabbit food.

“Ruby’s, though,” Melissa says. “I haven’t been here in a while. Feeling nostalgic?”

“Yeah, actually,” Tom replies, taking a sip of his water. “I mean, I’m not going to be the kind to wax lyrical about the ‘good old days’. There are things about my life now that I love. I love my job, I love my nosy, curious, rabbit-food-obsessed son, I love my bitchy, judgmental, eye-rolling daughter. I love you.” He reaches out and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles. “But there’s always going to be stuff that I miss. We can’t go back, though.”

Melissa squeezes his hand. “You’ve been quiet the last few days. What’s on your mind?”

“These murders. Chris Argent. Peter’s so-called accident.” Tom shakes his head a little. “Chris knows exactly who did it. He just . . . he won’t say anything, and I’m still trying to feel out why. I think he’s afraid, honestly. And it can’t be easy, to scare a man like Chris Argent.”

“Everyone’s got their weak points,” Melissa says. She frowns and glances around the diner. It’s nearly two, and their section is empty. Their waitress is chatting at the hostess stand while she waits for their food to come out. “You don’t think Chris is involved in what’s going on now?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Tom says. “It’s damned funny, this happening right after he came back to town, but I’m not sure what it means.”

“Are these murders similar to what happened to the Hales?” Melissa asks, letting him talk it out.

“Not really,” Tom says. “These people have run, like they were accosted while they were out, and been pursued. And whether they were actually animal attacks or not . . . I don’t know.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “The latter two guys were killed by knife wounds. The claw marks were inflicted post-mortem. So, that leaves me thinking, someone’s trying to make it look like an animal attack. Which is still what I think about what happened to Talia and the others. Except they didn’t have any wounds _except_ the claw and tooth marks.”

Melissa says nothing, stirs sugar into her iced tea, waits for him to talk through the problem.

“There’s one damned funny thing,” Tom finally says. “The knife used is a very specific knife. I’ve only ever seen one other person with a wound like this. It’s a tactical knife, military grade, very distinctive. One other time I saw this was a John Doe that was found dead about six weeks after the Hale murders.”

“Oh, I remember this,” Melissa says. “You thought maybe he was involved.”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “There was evidence the body had been moved. I thought, he was one of the attackers, got killed in the fight, and his accomplices buried his body. _He_ had a knife wound like that. That was what killed him.”

Melissa frowns. “What could that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Tom says wearily. “I really don’t. All I know is that whoever killed Talia and the others is still out there, and now people are dying again.”

“You’ll solve it, Tom,” Melissa says, reaching across the table and squeezing his hands. “I know you will.”

Tom glances up as the waitress brought out their food. He thanks her and she departs. “I don’t know, Mel. I never solved Talia’s murder or Peter’s ‘accident’. If this is related, I feel like I’m missing some huge puzzle piece that’s just out of view.”

“Well, maybe the cheeseburger will shake something loose,” Melissa jokes.

“Don’t let Stiles hear you say that,” Tom says, and they both laugh.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris is scowling as he goes through the main gate at the Argent family compound. The guard there had been some snot-nosed brat that hadn’t believed him about who he was even after shown ID. He had finally radioed in to his superior, who had confirmed that yes, Chris Argent was back in town, and yes, he should be allowed in. Chris resisted the extremely immature urge to flip the kid the bird as he started walking again.

When he gets to the house, he has to check in with another guard. That’s new. Not just ‘in general’ but new in the last week since he had been there. So his father is clearly aware that something’s going on, if only the murdered omegas. That guard has been warned that he’s coming, and waves him through.

Once he’s inside, a young pack member that he vaguely recognizes says, “I’m sorry, the alpha is in meetings. You can’t – ”

“I can assure you that this is more important,” Chris says, pushing past her. She’s still protesting faintly behind him as he goes into the main hall.

His father is, of course, sitting at the head of the room. Kate is sitting at his right, leaning over to say something into his ear. Two somewhat scruffy looking men of dubious origins – omegas, both of them, Chris ascertains with a quick sniff – are standing in front of them.

“Chris,” Gerard says, getting up. “Can this wait? I’m in a meeting.”

“So I’ve been told,” Chris says. “It’s important.”

“If it’s about the omegas – ”

“It isn’t.”

Gerard thinks about this, considers him for a few minutes, then looks at the two omegas and says, “Excuse us.”

“Old man, we didn’t come here to be excused,” one of the omegas growls, taking a few steps forward.

Before he can say anything else, Kate has his arm wrenched up behind his back and his face pressed into the wall. “Should I rip his arm off, Dad?” she asks, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual, excited.

“Maybe later,” Gerard says.

Kate makes a face of disappointment, then shoves the first omega back out into the hallway. The second follows under his own steam.

“What is it?” Gerard asks, once the door is closed.

“I met a young man today who was turned a couple weeks ago,” Chris says. “Here. In Beacon Hills. Now, since I know that you aren’t running around the forest at night biting random teenagers, then it appears that there’s a second alpha on your territory.”

Gerard’s brow furrows in a frown. He darts a look at Kate, who returns it with a shrug.

“What’s more,” Chris says, “his alpha has been calling him out against his will. So there’s a rogue alpha in Beacon Hills, and I figured you would appreciate knowing that. I’ll take care of Scott – I can teach him control, since I doubt you would adopt him into the pack. But the rest is up to you.”

“Was he able to give you any details about the alpha that bit him?” Gerard asks.

“I can tell you when and where it happened,” Chris says. “It was on the night the first omega was killed. So the two things are probably related.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Gerard says. “It’s a little coincidental, don’t you think? That omegas start dropping dead right after you get back into town?”

“What possible reason could I have to kill a bunch of omegas?” Chris asks.

“I don’t know, son. Why don’t you tell me?”

The silent tension holds for a long minute before Chris says, “I have not killed anyone. Not in Beacon Hills, not anywhere.” He lets his eyes flare gold for both of them to see. “Satisfied?”

Kate looks at Gerard and says, “He’s got a point.”

“Now that I’ve informed you of the possible danger to your territory,” Chris says, “I’m leaving.” He thinks about saying something else, maybe about how he would appreciate being kept informed, or even just ‘you’re welcome’, but then decides against it. He has a better idea. He turns and strides out of the hall, then makes a sharp right.

It’s been quite a long time since he’s been in the little alcove from which the acoustics are perfect to overhear what’s going on in the main room. Probably not since he was nineteen, when he had finally outgrown sneaking around. For all he knew, Peter had used it for years afterwards. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest to hear that.

But nobody has been using it recently. It’s dusty, so much so that he nearly gives himself away by sneezing after he pushes the curtain aside and slides through the tiny door.

“ – doesn’t prove anything,” is what Gerard is saying as he comes into the room.

“Well, no,” Kate agrees.

Gerard makes a disgruntled noise. “Might as well finish up with Roy,” he says, and then things are quiet for a minute. Chris waits for Roy, presumably the omega who had been there when he arrived, to come back in. He can hear his heavy footfalls. “All right, say what you came to say,” Gerard says a minute later.

Roy growls and says, “We had a deal. You extended your protection to the omegas in Beacon Hills. Now we’re getting slaughtered, and you’re sitting here on your ass doing fuckall about it!”

That’s a surprise to Chris. His father has always been openly disdainful of the other omegas in the area. He can’t imagine what would have prompted him to promise protection to a single one of them, let alone all of them.

“What makes you think we’re doing ‘fuckall’, as you so charmingly put it?” Gerard replies.

“Gee, let me think.” Roy’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Another one just got killed last night? Yeah, I’m thinking that’s the problem.”

“Maybe if you omegas didn’t die so quickly and easily, we’d be able to get to you before you got killed,” Gerard remarks.

Roy doesn’t rise to his baiting. “We want into the complex.”

Gerard gives a snort. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. That’s never going to happen. You’re not part of this pack and you never will be. None of you.”

“I’m not asking to be part of your pack,” Roy says with a sneer. “I wouldn’t lick your boots the way your betas do if you paid me. Lone wolf, right here. But you promised protection. If you can’t hold up your end of the deal while we’re out there, then we’re gonna come in here, whether you like it or not.”

“You come in here without an invitation and you’re going to have a bigger problem than whoever’s hunting you down,” Kate says.

“Is that so, little lady?” Roy asks, and Chris rolls his eyes. Bravado doesn’t get anyone anywhere with Kate. Not surprisingly, a few moments later he hears a sharp crack, the breaking of a bone, and howl of pain that’s certainly not his sister.

“Don’t break him in too many places, sweetie,” Gerard says to Kate. “We did promise them protection, after all.” There’s a creak as he rises from his seat. “My answer from last week doesn’t change. As soon as we figure out who’s killing the omegas, we’ll take care of them. If one of you could do us the favor of living through an attack, or at least surviving for more than thirty seconds so we can get to you, it would be helpful in this endeavor.”

It’s not Roy who speaks next; the voice is a little softer, with a higher pitch. His friend, then. “Why is your son in town, Gerard?”

“That’s not your business,” Gerard says.

“I think it might be,” the second omega says. “He shows up and then omegas start dying. It’s a little coincidental, don’t you think?”

“Well, like I said,” Gerard says, “maybe if one of you pathetic weaklings could stay alive until one of my pack can get to you, we’ll find out who’s doing it once and for all.”

There’s another snarl from Roy, another yip of pain as Kate clearly does something to him. Then there’s the sound of shuffling footsteps, the opening and closing of a door. Chris hears Roy and his friend’s footfalls fade away, and he stays silent, waiting to see if Kate went with them, or if her conversation with Gerard will continue.

“They’ve got a point, you know,” Kate finally says. “We’ve got the room. It wouldn’t be a national tragedy if we let them come stay here.”

“And then what?” Gerard asks. “We’ve got some killer out there who, with no targets, could do anything. No. We’re going to leave the omegas exactly where they are, and hope to God that one of them manages to stay alive long enough for you to get to them, find out who’s doing this, and tear out their throat.”

“You’re the boss,” Kate says cheerfully. But then her voice sobers up slightly. “What if it’s Chris?”

There’s a brief silence, and then Gerard says, “I don’t believe I stuttered, Katherine.”

“Whatever you say,” Kate says, and then her heartbeat and footsteps fade away as well, and Gerard is left sitting in silence.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles glances over his shoulder as he lets himself into his father’s office. The people at the police station are so used to his comings and goings that they won’t think twice about seeing him, even though the sheriff is out on a call. They’ll assume that Tom forgot his lunch or something like that. And Stiles has brought a brown paper bag with a lunch in it, just in case anyone questions him.

But that has nothing at all to do with why he’s there. He had been up late, texting with Scott, who was telling him about his first ‘werewolf 101’ session with Chris Argent. Interesting stuff, really. A lot of it seems kind of new agey to Stiles – getting in touch with ones’ inner self, anchoring their emotions – but if it works for Scott, he’ll roll with it.

Scott is clearly incredibly intimidated by Allison’s father, and it didn’t help that Allison hadn’t been there. Allison had wanted her to be there, but Chris had forbidden it. ‘He’s worried that I’m relying on Allison as my anchor,’ Scott told Stiles afterwards, ‘so he wants me to focus on other stuff.’

‘Such as?’ Stiles asked.

‘Family, friends. You know. Whatever keeps me grounded.’

That made sense to Stiles. ‘you should ask him about the murders,’ he says. ‘maybe he knows something.’

‘well, we sort of talked about it,’ Scott says. ‘get on skype, it’s too much to text’

Stiles poked his head out into the hallway and heard nothing. His father and Cora were both sound asleep. So he signed online. Scott looked tired and disheveled, but perky despite that. “So, I told him that the alpha kept trying to get me to get in between the murderer and his victim,” Scott said. “And apparently my alpha was really pissed off at me for failing, and that’s why he was dragging me around, right? I mean, from the little bits I remember.”

“Okay, right,” Stiles said. “So what?”

“Well, so I asked Chris what he thought about the murders. He said the omegas would have infighting sometimes and it wasn’t anything to worry about. So then I asked why an alpha would care about the omegas fighting. And he admitted he didn’t know.”

“Wow, that’s super helpful,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes despite himself.

“Yeah, okay, I know,” Scott said, “especially since we don’t even know for sure that it’s a werewolf killing another werewolf, right? I mean, I could’ve sworn I saw a knife that one time, and the last time I checked they weren’t even sure the claw marks were what had killed the guy, so – ”

“Wait, what?” Stiles asked, frowning. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

“Oh, Dr. Deaton said something about it while he was talking to your dad. About how the claw marks hadn’t bled a lot, and were they sure that they weren’t post-mortem. Your dad said he was waiting to hear back from somebody about it. Some initials.”

“The ME,” Stiles said automatically. “This could be important, though. I mean, it could confirm that it’s not a werewolf doing the murders. And there can’t be many people who would be capable of killing a werewolf, right?”

“I guess not,” Scott replied.

That conversation is why, twelve hours later, Stiles is sneaking into his father’s office. He came straight from school. Cora is at gymnastics, so hopefully she won’t notice his absence. She’s been acting a little odd lately, suspicious, which is not unlike her, but still. Stiles takes another glance around and then starts looking through the files on his father’s desk, examining the bulletin board.

There are three victims there, two men and a woman. Stiles uses his phone to take pictures of the murder wall. None of them look familiar, and from the looks of his father’s notes, he hasn’t been able to find any sort of connection. It takes him a few minutes to find the autopsy reports. On the first one, the body had been torn in half, and the ME estimated that there had been a large wound to the abdomen, disemboweling the man, which had actually killed him. The bisection had come afterwards.

“I bet you have to be pretty strong to actually bisect someone,” he mutters to himself. “That or have an axe or a chainsaw or something.”

The next two reports are far more interesting. The ME had indeed concluded that the claw marks had been made, if not post-mortem, at least superficially while the body was dying. Both people were killed by deep knife wounds to critical locations: the first was stabbed in the abdominal artery, and the second had a knife wound to the heart that had been delivered from the side, up through the ribs.

Those two wounds, according to the report, would have killed the person almost instantly. The claw marks had been made once the victim was unconscious and bleeding out if not already dead, including claw marks that covered up the knife wounds. If Sheriff Stilinski hadn’t noticed that some of the claw marks hadn’t bled very much, it might never have been noticed.

“Someone really wanted this to look like an animal attack,” Stiles says, sitting on his father’s desk and swinging his legs back and forth. “Why?”

Not only that, but the ME suggested that the killer was not only very strong, but also very skilled. The two lethal wounds were precise and had probably been delivered either by a professional, or at least someone with medical knowledge. So someone good at killing had had a good reason to want these people dead. More than that, the killer had knocked Scott out of the way not once but twice, keeping him down without hurting him. That suggested some type of moral code. Most professional killers wouldn’t have hesitated to eliminate a witness, Stiles thinks, going off his vast knowledge of criminal behavior from movies. This person had not only avoided killing a witness, they had avoided killing someone who was actively trying to stop them from accomplishing their job. Why?

The only explanation that Stiles could come up with was that this was someone who was familiar with werewolves and who recognized that Scott wasn’t acting of his own volition. Stiles chews on his lower lip while he studies the wall and considers this. The victims had been werewolves. The killer was someone familiar with werewolves. And at least one werewolf was trying to stop the murders, Scott’s alpha.

“None of this makes any sense,” Stiles says, and starts flipping through his father’s notes.

Ballistics had concluded that the knife used had been the same in both cases, something called a ‘fixed blade tactical knife’ with an eight inch blade. There was a picture of it included, and it looked terrifying. Not something that the average person would own. Stiles has certainly never seen anything like it in real life. Again, it seemed like the kind of tool a professional would use.

There are a few pages in the back that don’t seem connected to the others. For a minute he thinks he picked up another file along with the papers he’s been looking at. Then he realizes why it was included. It’s a report on a John Doe, a body found six years ago, which had been killed by a very similar knife. Or at least that was as close as anyone could figure out. The body hadn’t been found until several weeks after death, so everything was a guess; it had been unearthed by a small mudslide after heavy rain.

Stiles reads through the case and wonders how it could be connected. There has to be more than one person in Beacon Hills with a tactical knife like that. Yet his father clearly thinks it’s important somehow, or else it wouldn’t be included. The body also had several gunshot wounds, both in the lower body. Someone had shot him, taking his legs out from underneath him, and then someone had stabbed him to finish him off. Again, a precise, professional wound. The bullets had come from a .44 Magnum. “Old school,” Stiles says. It seems vaguely familiar. Stiles pinches his nose and tries to remember where he had seen this report before.

“Stiles, what are you doing in here?” his father’s voice asks, and Stiles jumps a foot in the air.

“Oh, I was just, uh – ”

“Snooping around?” Tom asks, holding his hand out for the folder. “I told you to let this go, Stiles.”

Stiles hands it over. “You didn’t – ” he starts, and then realizes that his father isn’t talking about the three omegas who have been murdered in the woods. His father is talking about the Hale family murder. _That’s_ where Stiles has seen the report on the John Doe before, in his father’s files about the Hales. Andrew Hale had been found with an empty .44 Magnum next to him, and his father had theorized that this John Doe had somehow been involved. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he blurts out. “Won’t happen again, Dad, I gotta – here’s your lunch!” He thrusts the brown paper bag into his father’s hands and all but runs out of the station.

If the omegas being killed were involved in the attack on the Hale family, a lot of pieces suddenly fall into place. That’s their connection; that’s the reason they’re being killed.

It’s easy to believe that one of the Hales might have owned a knife like that, if they hunted werewolves for a living. Easy to believe that more than one might have owned it, or that they might have inherited it or even picked it up at the crime scene. And now he – or she – is using it to kill the people who killed the Hale family.

That leaves only two suspects that he can think of. Chris Argent, and Derek.

Chris is the more likely by far. All this started right after he got into town. That alone puts him at the top of Stiles’ suspect list. If he and Peter were really lovers – or even if they were only friends – he would have ample reason to seek revenge on the killers. And he might be helping Scott control his lycanthropy to keep him out of the way, keep his alpha from forcing him to interfere.

The one thing that doesn’t make sense in this theory is the fact that the killer is making it look like an animal attack, when it clearly isn’t. Stiles wracks his brain as he drives home, but he can think of absolutely zero reason Chris would do that. If he wanted it to look like an animal attack, he would just put on his fur and his claws and do it that way. He wouldn’t use a knife and _then_ cover it up.

Which brings him to Derek.

Derek’s physically fit and very strong. (Stiles tries not to think about that much on the drive, because this would be a bad time for a boner. He’s trying to concentrate.) If the knife belonged to his mother, he could have come by it easily. He’s smart enough that Stiles can picture him having put together who was responsible for the attack on his family, and stoic enough that he can picture him not having said anything to anyone. But just quietly, carefully, planning to take care of it on his own.

He gets to the McCall house as quickly as he can, and drags Scott out of the house, shouting something about how they have a project to work on. Then he tells Scott what he’s figured out.

“Dude, it’s not Derek,” Scott says immediately.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles replies.

“Yes, I do. He’s my brother. I know him.”

“How can you know someone who barely speaks?”

Scott gives Stiles an incredulous look. “Are you seriously asking me that? I mean, you’re the one who’s in love with him.”

“I’m not – arg,” Stiles proclaims. “Okay, maybe I have a bit of a crush on him, but the dark, mysterious thing plays into that. It doesn’t play so well into the ‘definitely not a murderer’ thing. Besides, I’m not even sure it’s a _bad_ thing.” He sees Scott’s face grow even more skeptical. “Well, look, dude, if someone killed _my_ family, I’m not saying that I wouldn’t go nuts and go in for a revenge-based killing spree, either.”

“Jesus, if your dad heard you say that,” Scott says.

“If my dad knew werewolves existed, knew that the people who killed Derek and Cora’s family couldn’t be punished any other way, he might damned well agree with me,” Stiles says. Scott grimaces. “This would explain why Derek’s been acting so weird lately. Maybe it has something to do with Chris coming to town, I don’t know. We could just try to ask him a few questions – ”

“No,” Scott says loudly. “He’s my _brother_.”

“Fine, jeez,” Stiles says, because it’s obvious that he’s not going to get anywhere. But he makes a mental note to keep an eye on Derek, just until he can figure out what’s going on.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter.... is kind of depressing. I'm sorry. But for once it's not Gerard Argent's fault? That's got to count for something!
> 
> Also: I haven't seen 3B so I don't really know much about Claudia Stilinski. I went with the general fandom trope of cancer, even though I know that's not correct. Uh.... sorry if that's not your jam.

 

_then_

 

Allison didn’t get to see Scott again, much to her dismay. Gerard made a few pointed comments about ‘fraternizing with humans’ and Chris decided not to push it. He had enough problems without giving Gerard new ammunition. He was looking for a new job. The office building he worked at wanted to change his shift to nights, and he didn’t like the idea of leaving Allison and Victoria alone at night. He was thinking about opening his own business as a security consultant. He knew enough about it at this point that he thought he would be decent at it.

He went to see Tom Stilinski at the police station, having reconnected with him, thinking that he could give him some advice, maybe a few referrals. Tom gave him a few phone numbers and he started to get everything set up. He was happy with the change, happy to own his own business instead of being underneath his uncle’s thumb. It was one of the few choices he made that Gerard approved of. It was still security, still an Argent-approved career, and striking out on his own was considered a mark of maturity.

Peter was gone about another three months before abruptly reappearing in Beacon Hills. Chris had just gotten a cell phone for work. He was unsurprised to find out that Peter had had one for a while, although he often went to out of network areas while on the job. Peter called him when he got into town, having obtained the number from who knew where, and they met at the hotel.

It settled into a pattern. No matter how long Peter was away, things were always the same when he reappeared, like no time at all had passed. They would meet at the hotel and screw each other silly, then eat dinner while bringing each other up to date on what had been going on. Peter was strangely delighted to see pictures of Allison and hear about the way she was growing up. Chris shared the stories as only a proud father could.

In return, Peter told him about the places he had gone and the sort of monsters he had killed, and sometimes they watched television but more often they just talked and had sex until one or both of them passed out. Whoever woke up first left without waking the other, and that was it until the next time Peter rolled into town.

Chris didn’t know if Peter was still being celibate other than with him, and he didn’t ask. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask Peter to insist on that, not when he was so infrequently around. But if Peter was having sex with anyone else, he didn’t want to know.

He thought a lot about what Talia had said. About Peter being in love with him. But he supposed that it didn’t matter in the end. He had a wife now, and a daughter. Even if everything in the pack settled down and there was no more fighting tomorrow, he still couldn’t be with Peter anymore. Not in the way it seemed like Peter had once wanted for them. He wondered what would have happened if he had known. But he suspected the answer was that he would have freaked out and tried to shut Peter out of his life . . . and he equally suspected that that was why Peter had never told him. Would he have been brave enough to return Peter’s feelings, _really_ return them, if it had meant needing to leave the pack? He didn’t know. But after he had refused Peter’s invitation to New York City, he couldn’t blame the other man for not saying anything.

When Allison was six, he was braced for another argument about school. He wanted her to attend public school. He knew that being home schooled had a lot to do with the way he interacted with his peers. Allison wasn’t a werewolf, she didn’t have to hide the same way, he said.

This argument, Chris lost. Eloise took him aside and said gently, “Chris, don’t push this. I can’t side with you on this one. I know that Allison is human, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for her to attend school with other children. She might accidentally tell them something they shouldn’t know. We isolate ourselves – ”

“For a reason, I know,” Chris said, and sighed. “I just – I wish she had a friend. The only two kids in the pack in her age group are Jacques and Leah, and . . .”

Eloise thought about that for a minute. “Talia Hale’s youngest is about the same age, isn’t she?” she asked. “Maybe they could have some play dates.”

“Are you kidding? With the way things are with the pack right now?” Chris asked.

Eloise’s eyes flashed. “The Hales are our allies,” she said, in a low voice that promised danger for anyone who thought otherwise. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t allow your daughter to be friends with Talia’s.”

“If you’re sure,” Chris said. He called Talia later that day and she responded with enthusiasm. As it turned out, Talia had become friends with the Stilinskis. Claudia was a volunteer at the elementary school library, and Cora and Stiles had become little buddies. So at their first playdate, Stiles and Scott were both there. Chris was stunned to see that Allison recognized and remembered the friend she had made at the picnic so many years ago. They were instant best friends again, building a castle out of Legos. It was a princess castle, Allison said, and Scott happily added pink and purple flags to it.

One playdate became two, two became four. Chris was glad to have friends again. Sometimes Melissa was there, but more often she was working. Claudia brought the three kids over after school. Chris was often working himself, and Victoria brought Allison. Chris came when he could, because he didn’t want to miss any of Allison’s life if possible.

“Daddy!” Allison squealed, when he showed up. “Me an’ Scott are gonna get married, okay?”

Chris laughed despite himself. “Okay, sweet pea,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Go grab your stuff, okay?” he said, and went over to say hello to Claudia. He hadn’t seen her in almost two months at this point; he hadn’t been able to get away from work. As soon as he saw her, he could smell something . . . wrong. The sickly-sweet smell of rot and decay. “Claudia,” he said, almost cautiously. “How are you?”

“Great!” Claudia said, with her usual effervescent smile. “Hey, I baked some extra cookies. Do you like oatmeal raisin? Tom keeps trying to tell me nobody does, but I still love them. You want some to bring home?”

Chris could see where Stiles got his bright spirit and chatty nature. He accepted the offer of cookies, and then hesitated. He saw Victoria stare hard at him. You _can’t_ tell her, her stare seemed to say. Chris knew that Victoria could smell it, too. But there was no way they could explain what their senses told them.

He decided that he didn’t care. If it had been someone else – even someone he knew – he might have been able to keep his mouth shut. But Claudia was one of the few truly _good_ people he had ever known. “Listen, Claudia,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to scare the children. “Can I tell you something and you keep it a secret?”

“Sure!” Claudia said, smiling at him.

“And you won’t ask how I know?” Chris asked. “Or say anything to Tom?”

“Cross my heart,” she said, drawing an X over her chest.

Chris let out a breath. “You need to see a doctor.”

“What for?” Claudia asked, blinking at him.

“There’s something . . . not right with you,” he said. She opened her mouth and he said, “No. You can’t ask me, remember? Please just . . . please go see a doctor.”

“Okay,” she said, blinking at him in bewilderment.

Once in the car, Victoria said quietly, “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I know,” Chris responded. Victoria couldn’t argue with that, so she said nothing.

Three weeks later, he brought Allison to their play date and Claudia pulled him aside. It was clear that she had been crying, but now she had a smile on her face, presumably for the children’s sake. “I won’t ask how you knew,” she said. “I promised I wouldn’t. But.” Her voice cracked. “Jesus, Chris. You might – might have saved my life.”

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Pancreatic cancer,” she said. “And let me tell you how crazy the doctor thought I was when I went in there armed with nothing more than ‘my friend thinks I should be checked out and I guess I might have had some back pain lately now that I’m thinking about it’.” She swallowed hard. “They said it hardly ever gets detected this early, so . . . I have a lot better shot than I would have if I had waited until I was having symptoms.”

Chris squeezed her hand. “I want you to be here for your son, Claudia. And for Tom. You know he’ll go crazy without you.”

“He so will!” Claudia said, with a laugh that was close to tears. “I didn’t say anything to Tom about what you said. I just told him that I went to the doctor because I had been worried about the back pain but I hadn’t said anything to him because I didn’t want to worry him. I’ll admit I’m crazy curious, though.”

Chris hesitated, then shrugged. “You know how they say some dogs can smell cancer? So can I. I don’t know how I can do it. I just can. I knew something wasn’t right with you, that’s all.”

“Well,” Claudia said, “thank you. Really. Thank you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

Chris is so lost in thought that, even though he hears the footsteps in the hallway, he doesn’t make the connection until Tom pokes his head in. “Hey, Pe – oh,” he says. “Chris. Hey.”

Chris looks up, and instinct says to drop Peter’s hand like a hot potato, but he doesn’t quite manage it. It’s pointless, anyway. Tom’s obviously well aware of his feelings for Peter, so there’s no point in trying to hide them. “Hey,” he says in response.

Tom hesitates awkwardly, then says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. There’s not usually anyone here at this hour.”

“No, it’s fine,” Chris says, still not letting go.

Tom comes the rest of the way in and gives Peter a shoulder squeeze. “Hey, Peter,” he says, and of course gets no response.

They continue to stand in awkward silence for another moment before Chris says, “Well, I should – ”

Tom interrupts. “You wanna go get a beer?”

“Sure,” Chris says, grateful that he won’t be left with his own thoughts.

“I’ll just – ” Tom says, and hastily exits the room.

Chris waits until he’s gone, runs his hand over Peter’s hair and his jaw, presses a kiss against his forehead. “See you later,” he says to Peter’s blank gaze, before joining Tom in the hallway. “What, uh, what were you doing here, anyway?” he asks, as they start down the corridor towards the exit. “Not that you don’t have a right to visit, I mean, I was just – ”

“I come here sometimes when I’ve got a tough case that I’m trying to work out,” Tom says. “He makes a surprisingly good sounding board.” He doesn’t wait for Chris to respond or ask what the case is, or make any reference to the conversation they had had a week previous. “You know McNally’s on fourth street?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, and about twenty minutes later, he’s sitting in a booth with Tom, having a beer. He doesn’t usually drink, because liquor has no effect on werewolves and generally speaking, he thinks it tastes awful. But he’s aware of social conventions and he doesn’t want to look any weirder than Tom already thinks he is. “Look, about the other night – ”

“Forget about it,” Tom says. “If I really thought you were a suspect, I’d have you in lockup. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

Chris raises his eyebrows and takes a pull at his beer. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You mind if I ask a personal question?”

“Can’t promise I’ll answer it, but sure, go ahead.”

Tom tapped his bottle of beer against the table for a few moments. “About a year ago, my son comes up to me and says he thinks he might be gay. I said a stupid thing or two. Not, you know, I’m not a bigot, I just – it took me off guard, I made a dumb comment about his fashion sense.” He takes a drink. “Anyway, later he says he’s bi, which, okay. He’s my son, you know? I love him no matter what. And I can see – you know, if I hadn’t fallen in love with Claudia when I was fourteen, I could see myself maybe experimenting that way a little, sure. And no, I’m not propositioning you. Jesus, don’t make that face.”

“Sorry,” Chris says. “I’m just waiting for the question.”

Tom sighs. “I was just wondering why it never worked out. You and Peter.”

Chris looks away. He doesn’t want to answer that, doesn’t want to talk about it. “Honestly? Because I loved him so much that it scared the shit out of me. So I spent the better part of fifteen years convincing myself that it could never be anything.” He took another drink. “I was home-schooled until I was fifteen, you know, and pretty sheltered. When I met Peter, it was like . . . I don’t know _what_ it was. But it sure as hell wasn’t anything I could handle.”

“So why did you get married, then?” Tom asks.

“Family pressure,” Chris says with a shrug. “To get my dad off my back, mostly. I did want children. And since I thought I could never have Peter, what did it matter if I married someone else?”

“Peter was a hard one to peg, I’ll grant you that,” Tom says. “I was never anywhere near as sure about his feelings for you as I was yours for him.”

Chris is quiet for a minute. “He asked me to go to New York with him. The year he left, while I was still in college. He told me we could be together, that it would just be the two of us, no disapproving family, no sneaking around. And I said no. God, if I could go back in time and change one thing, that would be it. I wouldn’t give up Allison for anything, but . . . I wish I had gone with him then. Even if things didn’t change in the long run and all we had was that one year together . . . at least I would have the memories of it.”

They drink in silence for a few minutes.

“So you and Victoria . . .”

“She’s my friend. A good friend. She knew about Peter from the start, and she never had a problem with it.” Chris shrugs a little. “I’m not ‘in love’ with her, but I do love her, and in my opinion it’s nobody else’s business what we do in the bedroom. Or don’t do.”

Tom finishes off his beer. “Sounds lonely.”

“You have no idea,” Chris says, before he can help himself.

Tom regards him for a minute. “Why did you leave, Chris?”

“Because I thought Peter was dead.” Chris sees the look on Tom’s face and says, “You pulled off your deception a little too well, I guess.”

“Jesus,” Tom says, rubbing at his forehead with his palm. “Chris, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t just you. It was also because . . .”

Chris’ voice trails off. Tom thinks about it, puts two and two together. “Because you knew what had happened to him. You said the person who did it to him doesn’t know he’s alive. You were told he was dead,” he says, and Chris nods. Tom lets out a sigh and says, “I need another beer for this conversation. You?”

“Sure,” Chris says.

Tom comes back a minute later with two more bottles. “Look. There’s obviously a lot going on that I don’t know about. And I’m not going to push you for answers that you clearly don’t feel you can give to me. All I want you to do is think about the fact that the man you love has spent the last six years basically in a coma, and the person who hurt him is getting away with it. That’s it. That’s all I want to say.”

It seems to Chris like there’s a lot more Tom wants to say, but he takes the statement at face value and thinks about it the way he knows Tom wants him to. Why _is_ he letting Gerard get away with Peter’s theoretical murder? Because he’s his father? Because he’s an alpha? To preserve some fragile illusion of peace? “There’s no proof,” he finally says.

“If this person confessed to you, a jury might take that pretty damned seriously,” Tom says.

Chris considers his words very carefully, turning his bottle of beer around in his hands. “What this person confessed to,” he finally says, “is killing Peter in self-defense after Peter attacked him, thinking him responsible for the deaths of his family. That’s clearly nowhere near the reality of what actually happened.” He lets out a breath. “Tom, I need – I need you to drop this. These people are ruthless. You have kids, you have an entire town that depends on you. I don’t want you to end up like Peter. I don’t want there to be any more orphans.”

Tom chews on that for a long minute. “You know,” he says, “I almost quit being a cop after Claudia died. For Stiles’ sake. He handled her death so well, about fifty times better than I did. I spent pretty much the first week inside a liquor bottle. When I went back to work a week later – the first day was rough. Everyone took it easy on me, you know. And Stiles was back in school. I came home from that first day and found that my eight-year-old son had made dinner. I didn’t even know he could use the stove, but he went and made traditional Polish borscht, just like his mother had taught him, and pestered me into eating every bite of it.

“It went on like that for a while. Things got better, you know. I didn’t stop missing her, but I started to get used to the empty places she had left behind. And Stiles just kept on truckin’, you know? I called him my little trooper. And then about six months after Claudia died, there was a carjacking downtown. I wound up chasing the guy, he made an abrupt U-turn and I flipped my car.

“I got off pretty light, all things considered, a few cracked ribs and a concussion. It could’ve been a lot worse. But Stiles – he came into the hospital room where I was – they had decided to keep me overnight ‘just for observation’ – and he crawled into my lap and cried so hard that I thought he was going to break in half. He cried for _hours_ and begged me not to leave him. He said that he didn’t know what he would do if he was alone. That he had promised my wife he would take care of me.

“So yeah. I admit that I thought about it. And then I found out that after I flipped my car, the guy went on to cut off two other vehicles which also crashed. Just people out and about doing their business. One of them was much more seriously injured than I was, and one of them was dead.”

Tom stops talking then, and takes a long pull at his beer. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that death is always a risk. Nobody is ever one hundred percent safe. So what you have to focus on is living without regret. I think that’s what Claudia would want. If I die in the line of duty, so be it. At least that’s a death I can be satisfied with – and one a hell of a lot better than my wife got.”

Chris says nothing.

“Peter was my friend,” Tom finally says. “Not a close friend, and maybe not even a good man. But he was a citizen of this town that I’m responsible for, and he’s going to get justice, just like I would pursue for any other citizen. If you’re willing to help me in that pursuit, I will accept any help that you give me. But if I think you’re protecting the people that hurt him, I’ll come down just as hard on you as I would anybody else.”

Chris nods. “I understand.”

Tom finishes off his beer. “It’s late,” he says, “I’ve gotta get going.”

“I should, too,” Chris says, standing up. They settle up their tab and head outside, where the crisp fall air reinvigorates him a little.

“I hope your BAC’s under the legal limit,” Tom says, almost jokingly.

“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” Chris says. He hesitates, and then says, “And you know, I think your son is gonna be okay. I think he’s got the guts to go for what he wants . . . unlike me. Which is really all he’ll need, at least when it comes to stuff like that.”

“You’re probably right,” Tom says. “Got more guts than brains, my kid. Which is scary, considering his brains.”

Chris laughs a little at that and shakes his head as he gets into his car.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Peter’s flight got in so late that he decided against calling Chris. He was exhausted, and it was past midnight. Talia picked him up at the airport, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She saw the nasty burn on his arm and said, “How’d that happen?”

“Flaming sword. Don’t worry about it.” Peter rubbed his hands over his face. “The guys were not thrilled when I skipped out on them.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Talia said.

“I know. But I wanted to.”

The drive passed in silence except for the pounding of the rain on the windshield. Talia had made some tea before leaving, and it was sitting on the counter, lukewarm. “What’s the schedule for tomorrow?” Peter asked.

“The wake starts at one,” Talia said. “Then the funeral after that. God, I hope Tom listened to me about bringing Stiles. That kid is _not_ capable of standing in a line of well-wishers for hours. He said he didn’t know what to do with him, since Melissa wants to be at the wake and he doesn’t trust Rafael with the kids, so I told him he could drop him off here if he wanted, along with Scott. I’ll skip the wake if I have to.”

“Claudia would want us to do what’s best for her son, certainly,” Peter agreed, a little distant. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? Death. No matter who it happens to or how it happens. It’s so fucking senseless. You’re just left standing around and wondering why, why them, how are you going to explain it to the children.”

Talia let out a shuddering breath. “She – she put up a good fight, though. I mean, if you had seen her – at the end – ” She started to cry a little. “And poor Tom, he wasn’t even there, there had been a car accident out of town and Stiles – Stiles was there by himself.”

“That’s gonna fuck that kid right up,” Peter predicted, ignoring the tea and going for a bottle of whiskey. He poured a generous shot for each of them. “If you want to go to the wake, why doesn’t Laura watch the kids? Isn’t she old enough by now to keep an eye on a few rugrats?”

“She has a gymnastics tournament,” Talia said with a sigh. “I promised her I would go, then this happened. But she’s actually been very good about that.”

“Well, if there’s one thing we Hales understand, it’s death,” Peter said. He held up his glass. “To Claudia Kaczmarek Stilinski.”

“To Claudia,” Talia agreed, and gulped down her drink.

Peter drank his as well. It burned all the way down. “How are things here?”

“Good, actually,” Talia said. “As good as they can be, anyway. Things have settled down. I think Eloise went ahead and just stepped on anyone who talked shit. And Mirielle has actually done a fair amount of stepping up recently. She’s gotten Gerard to back down on some of his warmongering. I think she reminded him that werewolves are matriarchal and if he’s so big on the purity of werewolf culture, he should stop undermining her.”

“Good for her,” Peter said. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to pass out for a while. Is Chris going to be at the funeral, do you know?”

“I think so. He and Claudia were fairly good friends by the end. He had to stop bringing Allison over, though. She was having nightmares about being sick.”

“Death, the gift that keeps on giving,” Peter said, and staggered up the stairs. He fell onto his bed and passed out. It was late when he woke the next morning. He helped Talia around the house, took some time to play with each of her children. Cora was crying because she had really liked Claudia, as almost everyone who ever met her did.

At twelve, a quietly sobbing Melissa dropped off Scott and Stiles. Both boys were quiet and subdued. “Tom w-wants them at the funeral even though he d-doesn’t think they could handle the wake,” she said, continuously wiping her eyes. “Can you bring them?”

“I’ll bring them,” Talia said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “C’mon, kids. I’ve got some milk and cookies for you.”

“They’re my mom’s cookies,” Stiles said, looking at Scott. “She made them before she went into the hospital and then put the dough in the freezer so I could have them after she died.”

Peter was quite surprised by how matter-of-factly the young boy is handling this. He supposed that when one took a long time to die, they had time to prepare everyone around them for the actual loss.

Tom didn’t seem to have gotten the same memo his son did, Peter reflected when he got to the wake. The other man looked wrecked, devastated in more ways than could be put into words. Melissa hugged him for almost two full minutes. Peter hugged him, too, and said awkwardly, “I’m so sorry, Tom. Claudia was such a special person . . . she’s really going to be missed by everyone.”

Tom just managed a shaky nod in response. The wake was closed-casket. Given what two years of pancreatic cancer could do to a person, that didn’t surprise Peter. He was milling around aimlessly when he saw Chris come in. He looked tired. Peter waited until after he had talked to Tom, then went over and embraced him wordlessly. Chris hugged him hard, not letting go for a long time.

Talia arrived with the children a few hours later. They sat through the funeral in silence. Tom tried to give a eulogy but broke down, and Stiles went up, picked up his notes, and read it for him while Tom sobbed in Melissa’s arms. The little boy remained dry-eyed, and Peter murmured, “It’s hard to believe how well he’s handling this.”

“You can’t smell his feelings the way I can,” Chris said quietly. “That child is in agony, but he’s convinced himself that his mother would want him to be strong and carry on, and by God he’s going to do it if it kills him.”

They filed out in silence afterwards.

“Hotel?” Chris said.

“Treehouse,” Peter replied. “I’m feeling nostalgic.”

“All right.”

Neither of them was really hungry, but they picked up some sandwiches on the way. The rain had finally stopped a few hours previous, so the treehouse was still damp, but not actively dripping. The two of them lay on the wooden boards and stared at the leaves.

“It’s stupid,” Chris said. “I really want to, because I know you’ll leave tomorrow, and God, normally I can’t keep my hands off you when I see you, but . . .”

“Hard to put yourself in the mood after a funeral like that,” Peter agreed. He reached out and took Chris’ hand. “I think I’ll stay an extra few days, anyway. Cora’s been crying nonstop, Derek’s mad about all the attention she’s getting, and Talia’s more upset than she’s letting on. Claudia had become almost another sister to her in the last few years.”

“Okay.” Chris rolled onto his side and caressed Peter’s cheek with his thumb. “Someday you’ll come back to Beacon Hills for good, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Peter said, touching their foreheads together. “I will. I promise.”

They fell asleep on the wooden boards of the treehouse curled up together. Chris woke up stiff, sore, and damp. He stretched and worked the kinks out of his muscles, looking around for Peter. He didn’t see him anywhere, and climbed down out of the tree to look for him. He emerged from the trees a minute later and said, “Taking care of business,” to Chris’ questioning look. “Damn, I’m sore. I remember when I could sleep in that treehouse without a single knot in my shoulders afterwards. Are we getting old, Christopher?”

“Maybe,” Chris said. “Allison’s turning nine this year. Melissa’s probably going to be divorced within a year if Rafael keeps this shit up. Laura’s talking about what colleges she wants to apply to. Claudia’s dead . . .”

Peter raked a hand back through his hair. “Hey, Chris,” he said, and the werewolf gave him a questioning look. Peter gave him an impish smile and said, “Catch me if you can,” and then bolted off into the woods. Chris laughed despite himself, and followed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do enjoy Cora and Stiles as snarky siblings. ^_^

_now_

 

One of the highlights of Stiles’ week has always been Saturday night geekfests with Scott. They devote the hours after dinner to doing something extremely dorky. They watch Star Trek or Buffy, or play Halo or World of Warcraft, until they literally can’t stay awake anymore. The best nights are when Derek joins them. He doesn’t like science-fiction the same way, but he loves fantasy and history, so he’ll join them for things like Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter.

On this particular evening, Stiles has gotten hold of the first season of Avatar: The Last Airbender, and although Derek had expressed some dubious feelings at first, he’s slowly gotten more and more enraptured. Cora’s not there; this sort of thing isn’t her style. She’s sleeping over at her friend Erica’s house, so it’s just the three of them. His father is sensibly hiding upstairs, as he usually does on Saturday nights. Melissa had stayed for a few hours after dinner, but she has an early shift the next day, so she went home after that.

Stiles is just starting to yawn when his father comes downstairs, dressed in his full uniform. “Hey, where are you going?” he asks.

“None of your beeswax,” his father replies.

Stiles rockets to his feet. “Was there another murder? Dad? Dad!” He scampers after his father as he heads for the garage.

Tom sighs and turns, obviously knowing that Stiles will only work himself up further if he leaves without saying anything. “Yes, there was another murder, at a video store downtown, about half an hour ago, and there are witnesses this time, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“No, uh, go ahead,” Stiles says. He looks over at where Derek and Scott are still sitting on the sofa, blinking at him, and is flooded with relief. Derek _can’t_ be the killer. Derek had been sitting right there, with them, for the past two hours. He hadn’t even taken a bathroom break, let alone left long enough to kill someone.

But if it isn’t Derek, who is it? Stiles is sure by now that the victims are all connected to the Hale family murder. Derek wasn’t just his most likely suspect, he was basically his only suspect. He sees Scott looking at him in some confusion, but doesn’t say anything about it. They can’t talk about it until they’re alone, and that doesn’t happen until nearly two hours later. Derek decides to go home and get some sleep, but Scott says he’s going to stay the night at Stiles’ house, so the two of them are left alone.

“Okay, so it isn’t Derek,” Stiles says, pacing around the living room.

Scott groans. “Stiles, it’s two AM. Let me sleep.”

“How can you sleep?” Stiles asks, flailing at him. “There’s a freakin’ serial killer in town and you want to sleep. And why didn’t your alpha call you out this time?”

Now Scott is frowning. “I think actually – maybe – he did? A little? I felt really restless and uncomfortable during the first few episodes. But you know, Chris has been helping me work on my control, so I did some of the meditation exercises he had taught me and focused on, you know, calming the inner wolf, and it went away.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. He has to admit he’s a little surprised, having thought most of that stuff was new age bullshit. “Okay.” He paces around for another minute. “Chris, you know. He has motive.”

“What? No way,” Scott says.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says. “I mean, he was friends with the Hale family, and probably Peter’s lover even if no one wants to admit that to us. And you can’t ignore the coincidence of the timing. This all started right after Chris moved back to town. It would explain why the killer was trying not to hurt you. He’s got that whole thing about the code.”

“He’s too tall,” Scott says.

“Your recollections of the shit that’s happened are fuzzy at best,” Stiles replies. “You could have gotten some facts wrong.”

“Okay, but if he was a psycho murderer, why would he be teaching me control?”

“Uh, let’s think about that,” Stiles says. “The alpha, whoever he or she is, is using you to try to stop the murders. If Chris is the one _committing_ the murders, he’s got pretty strong incentive to stop you trying to stop him.”

Scott frowns. “I guess that makes sense. But I still say he’s too tall.”

“Okay, well, who the hell else is there?” Stiles asks. “I mean, besides Cora . . . she’s the only other Hale left.”

“It could be Cora,” Scott says. “I mean . . . she’s been acting really weird lately. You know that. Spying on us and stuff. And she’s taken all those martial arts classes and stuff.”

“That’s my sister you’re talking about, bozo,” Stiles says. “Cora isn’t a killer.”

“You thought Derek could be a killer,” Scott retorts. “Why not Cora?”

“Look, if Chris is too tall, Cora’s too fucking short,” Stiles says. “You said the killer was your height or a few inches shorter. Cora’s barely even scraping five four.”

“Maybe Derek and Cora are working together,” Scott says. “I mean, maybe they realized we were onto them, so Derek committed the first few murders and then sent Cora to do one tonight, when he had a rock solid alibi sitting right here with us.”

“That’s not – holy fuck, that’s actually really plausible,” Stiles says. He grimaces and continues, “Well, look, there was a witness tonight, right? So maybe we should just cool our jets until we hear what he or she saw.”

“Dude, I tried to tell you to cool your jets ten minutes ago,” Scott says, and Stiles hits him with a pillow.

He doesn’t feel any better about it in the morning, though. His father is home, making breakfast, when he gets up. So is Cora, from her sleepover, sitting there drinking coffee with a surly expression on her face. Tom doesn’t want to give his son any details on the murder, but the fact that he’s grouchy about it means he hasn’t been blessed with an overabundance of new leads. Stiles manages to coax out of him that the ‘witness’ only saw a blurry figure leaving the scene and isn’t even sure if it was male or female, and that the store’s surveillance cameras had been disabled.

So he’s left staring at Cora, wondering if she had said she was going to her friend’s house but then left to commit a murder most foul. He sympathizes with whoever the killer is – presuming that he’s accurately assessed their motives. He doesn’t want to think Cora’s capable of murder, but if Derek is, why not Cora? She’s only a few years younger. Stiles wonders, if someone killed his father, would he be capable of revenge murder? He’s ninety-nine percent sure that the answer is yes, especially if it was someone who couldn’t be prosecuted in a court of law. So why should Cora be any different?

“What?” Cora asks waspishly, when she sees him staring at her for too long.

“You look tired,” Stiles says.

“I was up half the night because Erica started having seizures,” she says. “Some fun slumber party.”

“Cora,” Tom says, somewhat reprovingly. “I doubt she had a good time of it either.”

“Guess not,” Cora says grumpily.

“Did you like . . . have to help out?” Stiles asks, trying to feel the situation out a little more. “Did they take her to the hospital?”

“What? No. Mostly I just sat in the corner and tried to stay out of the way.”

So it would have been easy for her to slip out of the house for half an hour or even an hour and not have anybody notice, Stiles thinks. And Scott’s right about one thing; Cora _has_ been acting pretty shifty lately. If she knows that the alpha is sending Scott out to try to stop the murders, she might have wanted to keep an eye on them, like when she insisted on going on their bowling date for no reason.

Tom sighs and says, “I’m going to be working most of the day. Can I trust you two miscreants to get your homework and your chores done?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, quickly enough that his father just groans. “We’ll even make dinner. What do you want? And don’t say curly fries.”

“There’s some hamburger defrosting in the fridge,” Tom says. “Do what you will.” With that, he finishes his cup of coffee and heads out the door.

Cora’s glowering at Stiles for a long minute while he stands up and starts to root around the fridge to see if they have the ingredients for tacos or shepherd’s pie. Then, abruptly, she says, “Oh my God! I can’t fucking take it anymore. I don’t give even half a fuck what Derek thinks, I’m five hundred percent done with this bullshit. Why are you looking at me like I killed your puppy?”

“What? I – ”

“Scott’s a werewolf, right?” Cora demands, and Stiles stammers something idiotic. “Don’t play games with me, Stiles! Scott’s a werewolf and his alpha keeps calling him out and he’s either committing murders or trying to stop them, I don’t know which and it’s driving me God damned bonky, but if there was another one last night it has to be the latter, right?”

“Shit,” Stiles swears. “Okay, yes! Fine! Scott’s a werewolf. He got bitten the night the first body was found, and no, we don’t know who bit him. And yes, his alpha keeps throwing him between the murderer and his victims and we don’t have any fucking clue why. It’s like a running theme in our investigations. The No Fucking Clue theme.”

Cora scowls more intently, and says, “Why have you been staring at me all morning?”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head and says, “Because I was trying to figure out if you’re the murderer?”

“And you thought staring at me was a good way to accomplish that? Like I wouldn’t fucking notice?”

“Well, cut me some slack, I’ve never been to detective school – ”

“You’re such an idiot!” Cora says, and then she’s giggling, and Stiles can’t help it, he’s laughing too. “No! I haven’t killed anyone. And neither has Derek.”

“Why should I believe you?” Stiles asks.

“Because I’m your sister, you fucking monkey.”

Stiles laughs again. “Okay. I believe you. But if it’s not you and Derek, then . . . it has to be Chris Argent, right?”

“Well, God knows he’s been _my_ number one suspect from the beginning,” Cora says, “but little things like ‘the actual police investigation’ keep getting in my way.” She sighs. “Okay. Can we collaborate for a few minutes here? I know you’ve looked at your father’s files, but . . . Chris’ arrival was the catalyst, but I don’t actually think he’s the killer. I don’t know him well, but he was friends with my mother and my uncle and from what I know, he’s smart enough to know that the timing would be massively coincidental. Your father must have checked him out, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, getting himself another mug of coffee. “Animal attacks. The . . .” He realizes he was about to say ‘Hale family murder’ but stops himself at the last minute.

Cora ducks her head and looks away for a minute. “It’s okay, Stiles. We can’t just ignore it. Yeah, my family was killed by werewolves. I don’t really know a lot of the details why. The Argent pack had just gone through a bunch of changes, the alpha had changed. But it wasn’t Gerard Argent who killed my family. You know how I know that?”

“How?” Stiles asks.

“Because he was the most likely suspect,” Cora says. “The one everyone would have thought of. Uncle Peter . . . had three full days to investigate. If he didn’t kill Gerard during that time, it’s because he came to the conclusion that Gerard wasn’t responsible.”

Stiles nods slowly. “More coincidental timing, and more people too smart to commit murder when they know they would be the number one suspect.”

“Look,” Cora says, “confirming Scott’s a werewolf has put a massive shift in this for me.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because it means there’s two alphas,” Cora says. “Gerard would _never_ turn some random kid in the woods. Trust me on that. He’s _so_ over the top about the purity of his pack. That’s why he kept trying to get Chris to turn Allison when she was younger, because he hated having a human in his pack. He doesn’t even allow omegas to petition to become part of his pack.”

“Okay. So there’s two alphas. Why does that matter?” Stiles asks.

“Because there shouldn’t be two fucking alphas,” Cora says. “This has literally been Argent territory since the 1800s. Where did the second one come from? And why is he or she trying to interfere with the murders?”

“What if it’s Chris? What if he’s the alpha?” Stiles asks.

“He’s not,” Cora says.

“But how do we know?”

“Because if Chris was an alpha, Gerard would have killed him the minute he came back to town.”

Stiles thinks that over, then nods. Cora’s helping him get a better picture of Gerard Argent, and it’s helping him slot a few pieces into place. “Okay. So Chris is helping Scott learn better control so the alpha will stop calling him out. But that probably doesn’t have anything to do with the murders. It’s just because he’s a decent dude. I can work with that. But it still doesn’t explain why Scott’s alpha would want to interfere. Unless . . .”

Cora perches on the edge of her seat. “Unless what?” she demands.

“Maybe we’ve been thinking about this all backwards,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “If it isn’t you, Derek, or Chris, there are no other victims left to seek retribution, right? So what if that’s not what it is? What if one of the people who committed the crime is killing off their accomplices?”

Cora blinks. “That’s . . . actually not that unreasonable. I mean . . . the Argent pack has always had undercurrents of instability. If someone can prove that they’re actually responsible for what happened to my family, other hunters would be happy to come wipe them out. Professional courtesy, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, your mom must have had friends, right?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah. Hunters are a tight-knit group. Derek’s still in touch with some of mom’s closer friends. They’ve never touched the Argent pack because they never had evidence, but what if one of the omegas was threatening to talk?”

“Or,” Stiles says, “what if this new alpha wants to wipe out the Argent pack and take the territory? That would explain why he or she is trying to put a stop to the murders. Because the murderer is wiping out the evidence.”

“Jesus,” Cora says. “And just because Gerard isn’t the one who ordered my family killed doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone else in the pack.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says. “Look, okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Let’s compile our evidence. I’ve got all my dad’s files. I want you to tell me _everything_ you remember about what happened that day, and what was going on in the Argent pack in the months beforehand. We’re going to put this shit together.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Things in the pack were increasingly tense as they all prepared for the alpha inheritance ceremony. Chris was so busy making preparations and bracing himself for what might happen after Mirielle took over the pack – even preparing escape routes for his wife and child just in case – that it only occurred to him at the last minute that the Hales had no idea what was about to happen. Things could escalate into a pack war within the next three days, and they hadn’t even been warned.

He felt a little awkward calling the Hale house, and he presumed that he probably always would. Fortunately, he got Jocelyn, who never questioned when he called. She put Talia on the phone, and she said, “Chris, always a pleasure.”

“I need to speak with you, privately,” Chris said, “and I think Peter should be there too.”

There was a moment of wary silence on the other end. Then Talia said, “It sounds urgent.”

“It’s not an emergency, but it needs to be before the full moon,” he said.

“Peter’s in South Dakota, so I can’t guarantee I can get a hold of him in time, but I’ll try,” Talia said. “Can you come to the house?”

Her real question was clear. She wanted to know if Chris thought he was being watched. “Yes,” he said.

“We’ve put in extra security measures since the last time you were here,” she said. “Wait at the gate and we’ll let you in. Ten o’clock tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be there,” he said, and hung up. He didn’t tell Victoria where he was going. The walls had ears these days, even in the privacy of their own home, and although he trusted Victoria completely, he could never feel one hundred percent safe. He headed out the next night with feelings of extreme trepidation.

Peter was there, to his relief. For once, Chris wasn’t completely consumed by lust the moment he saw him. He was too tense and worried. Peter could clearly read his mood, because he didn’t approach him. Talia poured him a mug of coffee. The house was quiet, the children in bed. Chris took a deep breath and plunged in. “The alpha inheritance ceremony is tomorrow.”

Talia and Peter exchanged a glance. “I’m not familiar with that particular ceremony,” Talia said. “I’m guessing it’s exactly what it sounds like, though. Elaborate?”

“The alpha power can only be passed down one way. You know that. So what happens when the alpha of a pack starts to get old?”

Peter surprised him by reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. “Your grandmother is going to die tomorrow night, isn’t she.”

Chris nodded abruptly. “The first full moon after the alpha’s seventy-seventh birthday,” he said, “she willingly cedes the power to whoever is next in line for it. That way, every pack always has a strong alpha. It isn’t as though werewolves get sick in old age, but they get slow. Weak.”

“So you cull your own alpha.” Peter’s lip curled a little. “How barbaric.”

“It’s a sacrifice that they willingly make,” Chris said, scowling at him. “My grandmother has known all her life that this was coming. She’s accepted that and made peace with it. It’s harder . . . for those who are left behind.”

Peter nodded. He knew that Chris was his grandmother’s favorite, that they were close. “Your mother, then, is next in line? She’s the oldest. She’ll kill her own mother? How does she feel about that?”

“The same way. It’s expected. It’s duty.”

“You Argents and your _duty_ ,” Peter scoffed.

“It’s for the _pack_ ,” Chris snapped at him. “We do it to keep the pack strong, for everyone’s protection.”

Peter rolled his eyes a little, but he had learned long ago that pushing Chris on issues like this never got him anywhere. “Then you’ll have to kill her someday, won’t you? You’re her oldest child.”

“In twenty-nine years,” Chris said, and the fact that he had that number easily at hand confirmed Peter’s suspicions that he had been thinking about it a lot. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Well,” Peter said lightly, glancing at Talia, “I’m glad being the head of a hunting family doesn’t pass down that way. Although I suppose it wouldn’t be my problem, being in that I’m not the eldest. But still. Imagine having a baby, knowing it will grow up to kill you when you’re deemed too old and weak to continue to lead. Well. I suppose you probably _have_ imagined that.”

Chris’ lips tightened in anger, but he didn’t refute the statement.

Something occurred to Peter. “Would it be you, though? I thought packs were a matriarchal society. Shouldn’t it be Kate?” he asked, and Chris shook his head and looked even angrier. Peter smirked. “Dear Kate refused, didn’t she? But I can’t imagine it’s for _moral_ reasons. So what, then? What’s her angle? Is it just that she’d rather live ‘til she was ninety than know she’ll die at seventy?”

“No,” Chris snapped. “No angle.” He let out a breath. “Look, this is in confidence . . .”

“We haven’t betrayed you yet, have we?” Peter asked. “What’s one more secret?”

Chris gave him a look, but then looked away. “My mother came to me a few years ago and told me it would be me instead of Kate because she doesn’t think Kate is . . . worthy of the alpha status. She’s worried that Kate would break the Code, that she’s too bloodthirsty.”

“She’s probably right,” Peter said without compunction, and Chris scowled. Talia sighed and pushed her hair back out of her face. “We’ve debated many times whether or not Kate should be put down. With the agreement always being that as long as your family keeps her in line, it won’t be necessary. But imagining her as an alpha . . . brrr.” He gave a fake shiver. “It is a rather terrifying concept, though I’m a little surprised your mother realized.”

Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah,” was all he said. He had been, too. But the more tensions rose, the more Mirielle seemed to realize that her husband couldn’t be trusted, that he had corrupted their daughter, that Chris was the only one left in the pack besides her who really _believed_ in the Code anymore. Mirielle still believed in it, but Chris didn’t know if she could enforce it.

“And so, it falls upon you,” Peter said, “and of course, you’ll do your ‘duty’. How is it done?”

“Decapitation,” Chris said.

“How very . . . final.”

Chris shrugged.

Talia let out a breath. “What do you think is going to happen?” she asked.

“My mother believes in the Code,” Chris said. “She truly does. And in the past few years, she’s made more of an effort to be public about that. She and Gerard have clashed on a number of issues, including his treatment of Allison. But whether my mother is strong enough to hold the pack together once Eloise is gone . . . I don’t know. I really don’t.”

Peter glanced at Talia and said, “Looks like I might be back in town for the long haul.”

Talia nodded slightly and said, “Chris. I appreciate that you brought this to us. But I want you to know that if members of your pack start to cross the line . . . we won’t hesitate. No matter who they are.”

Chris rubbed a hand over his hair and said, “I know.” Because he did know. The Hales’ devotion to their duty was no less than his own. “I need to go. I need to stand with my mother in this and make it clear that I’ll enforce her rules no matter what my father or sister say about it.”

“All right,” Talia said. “But be careful, Chris. And . . . if you need anything, please remember that we’re here. And that you can come to us if need be.”

Chris nearly choked on the swell of feeling in his throat. “Allison,” he said. “If anything goes . . . badly. For me. Can I tell Victoria to bring Allison to you? That you’ll protect her?”

Talia nodded, her face solemn. “With my life,” she said.

“Thank you.” Chris breathed out, feeling the knot in his stomach loosen a little. “Peter, I . . .” He should say it. He knew he should say it. But Peter leaned across the table and kissed him. That would be enough.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

Stiles stares at the pages full of notes he’s taken and tries to ignore the fact that the notebook literally has ‘Mr. Stiles Hale’ written on the back of it with a heart around it. What, he gets bored in class sometimes. It seems a little silly given that he’s staring at one inconsequential note he made, one offhanded remark Cora had mentioned. Derek’s girlfriend. Derek had a _girlfriend_.

It’s incredibly stupid. He’s been trying to solve this mystery for years. Now he’s swimming in more information than he had ever thought he would accumulate, and he’s perseverating on the fact that Derek had a girlfriend. Given that winning Derek’s heart has always been a strong motive for solving the murders, it does make some amount of sense that he would feel a little bummed out.

“C’mon, nut up, Stilinski,” he mutters to himself. Winning Derek’s heart isn’t his _only_ motive, and there’s a lot of shit going on, and he needs to focus. So he does. He peppers Cora with relevant questions, draws up an Argent family tree, makes copious reference notes on who in the pack was on which side, to the best of Cora’s knowledge. She mentions twice that Derek has more information on this stuff than she does, but neither of them really want to bring Derek in on their investigations.

So it’s nearly an hour later before Stiles suddenly blurts out, “What was she like?”

“Who?” Cora asks, intently studying a map of Beacon Hills.

“Derek’s girlfriend.”

“Geez, I don’t know,” Cora says. “I never even met her.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, surprised.

She gives him an annoyed look. “Let’s say that you’re fifteen and you’ve got your first girlfriend. Would _you_ want your little sister tagging along with you on dates?”

“No, but if my little sister was you, she probably spied on me anyway,” Stiles remarks. Cora gives a little grimace. “Come on. I’m just curious.”

Now Cora gives him a look which clearly implies she doesn’t believe for a minute that his curiosity comes without motive. Then she huffs out a sigh. “She was a few years older than him, I think. She was blonde, and she called him sweetie. I saw her pick him up at school once, that’s how I know. Anything else?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I guess not. They didn’t keep dating afterwards?”

“I dunno. I mean, he didn’t talk about her, but he didn’t talk about anything. He probably never even called her. You know he went straight into hermit-hood after that. She probably moved on to less desolate pastures.”

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles says, feeling gloomy about the whole thing. “So what does Derek think of all this?”

Cora taps her pencil against the table and says quietly, “Derek was really messed up by what happened to mom and the others. I mean, obviously we all were, but _Derek_. He was just . . . wrecked by it. He was always kind of a momma’s boy, so . . . anyway, he’s kind of kept up on all the hunting stuff intellectually, even though he doesn’t practice the physical parts of it so much. He keeps files on the different players in Beacon Hills and when there’s a murder or kidnapping that looks weird, nine times out of ten, Derek can figure out who did it, and he e-mails one of Mom’s hunting buddies to come take care of it.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So what does Derek think of _this_?”

“He’s worried,” Cora says. “Really worried. About Scott. He’s afraid that if Scott’s hurting people, he’ll have to put him down, or at least call someone who can.” She pushes a hand through her hair and says, “But then he convinced himself that Scott’s not a werewolf, so for the moment we don’t have to worry about him.”

“How’d he do that?” Stiles asks.

“’Cause Scott’s shoulder got hurt,” Cora says. “And werewolves heal, you know? So he figured Scott _couldn’t_ be a werewolf. But I wasn’t so sure. Because, you know, they don’t _always_ heal. Just usually.”

“Scott says Chris told him that wounds made by an alpha don’t heal the same way.”

“Yeah, and it’s not just that, there’s like,” Cora flaps a hand at him, “psychosomatic shifts in healing and stuff. Derek _knows_ this stuff, he’s just – he wants so badly for Scott to be safe that he’s kind of ignoring it.” She shrugs. “That’s my brother.”

Stiles flips through the pages of notes he’s made. “So these omegas must have been hired by someone to attack your family. That makes sense, right? The Argents wouldn’t have wanted to go in themselves and get their asses kicked. So they hired muscle. Are there other omegas in town?”

“Derek’s got a list. I can get it.”

“So maybe if we can get in touch with them, one of them might know more about what’s going on.”

“They won’t talk to us,” Cora says, shaking her head and tucking her hair behind her ears. “Omegas – well, the ‘lone wolf’ thing is used for a reason. They’re notoriously suspicious and anti-social. Not the kind of people you can go door to door with.”

“Yeah, but if someone’s killing them . . .”

“Hey, we can give it a try,” Cora says. “It’s an idea, which is one more idea than I’ve got. I’m just saying, I don’t think it’ll get us anywhere.”

Stiles sighs. “At least it’s a place to start.”

 

  ~ ~ ~ ~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasps* Revelations~~~!
> 
> Also it's been a long time since I've watched season 1 of Teen Wolf. I tried to loosely base this chapter on Night School but I probably got a lot wrong, LOL

_now_

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, staring at the list that Cora brought from Derek’s files.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Cora agrees.

“Harris is a fucking _werewolf_ ,” Stiles says. “God, that explains so, so much about everything. Suspicious and anti-social, yup, that’s pretty much Harris to a fucking T. Hey. This is good, right?” He’s perking up now. “He won’t want his secret exposed, so maybe we can blackmail him into talking to us.”

“Seriously?” Cora says, giving Stiles a skeptical look. “How do you picture that going? We threaten to tell the principal that Harris was a werewolf? He’d laugh us out of his office.”

“No, dork,” Stiles says. “We threaten to tell my _dad_ that Harris was involved in your family’s murder.”

“We don’t have a shred of evidence,” Cora protests.

“Dude, we don’t need it,” Stiles says. “We know enough about what happened that I could call the station, leave an anonymous tip saying, ‘hey, I know who was involved’ and point the finger at him. It doesn’t even matter if he was actually involved or not. Even if he doesn’t wind up arrested, it could still ruin his reputation and cost him his job.”

“That is the most dishonest, mean-spirited, underhanded idea I’ve ever heard,” Cora says. “Let’s do it.”

Getting Harris alone is easy enough; they both just angle to get detention. Since Harris hands out detentions like they’re going out of style, it’s not at all difficult. The only thing they really have to worry about is whether or not anyone else will land in detention with them.

Stiles waits until he can’t hear any noise outside the room and then says casually, “So, Mr. Harris, how’s the werewolf business? Aren’t you nervous, with all the omegas being killed right and left?”

Given his antagonistic relationship with the man, it’s a real joy to watch him choke on the water he’s drinking. He coughs so hard that Stiles is considering getting up to pat him on the back before he finally recovers. Harris stares at him with his mouth ajar for a few moments while Stiles just grins sunnily at him and Cora glares with all the power of her pint sized glare (which is a lot).

“How do you – ” Harris seems to realize halfway through his sentence that it’s a question that won’t get him anywhere. “Be quiet. If you need work to do, there’s plenty that I can give you.”

“I actually am working on a school project as we speak,” Stiles says brightly. “For history, we’re doing a project on any local event which we feel has significantly impacted the community. I’m studying up on the Hale family murder, and to this end, I’m interviewing you to determine what your involvement was.”

Harris’ back goes stiff. “I was not involved, so this interview is over.”

“Come on, Mr. Harris,” Cora says, clearly trying to contain her anger. “Every omega in town was involved except you? What are the odds of that?”

Harris adjusts his glasses and snaps, “No, not _every_ omega was involved. Only about a dozen agreed to participate, and there are nearly three dozen in Beacon Hills and the surrounding – ” He seems to realize that he’s being baited, and abruptly snaps his mouth shut.

Stiles walks over and perches on the edge of his desk. “So why weren’t you involved?”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then Harris lays down his pen with an angry sound. “I was approached regarding the attack on the Hale family. I said I wasn’t interested. Why? Because I went to high school with Peter Hale. There aren’t many rules to being an omega in Beacon Hills, but one of them is: you don’t mess with Peter Hale. So I said no.”

“Didn’t seem to bother a lot of omegas in town,” Cora says.

“And see where it’s getting them now.”

Stiles and Cora exchange a glance. “You know Peter Hale is dead, right?” Stiles says, because he’s no fool; he’s known about Peter’s faked death since he was twelve.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Harris says, “but I frankly wouldn’t put it past him to come from beyond the grave and wreak his bloody vengeance.” He stares hard at Cora and says, “Do you know what your uncle is? I mean, do you _really_ know?”

“Yeah,” she snaps. “Dead.”

Stiles decides to change the subject. He knows better than anyone how hard it is for Cora to visit her uncle in the nursing home. To see the once dangerous, energetic man who had taught her how to throw knives and braid her hair reduced to a scarred mess who stares off into space and never reacts to a word she says. “So who approached you?” he asks.

Harris gives him a look. “You’re joking, right?”

“Well, no. I know it was someone in the Argent pack. I just don’t know who.”

“Rule number two of being an omega in Beacon Hills: you don’t mess with the Argent pack.”

Clearly, it’s time to pull out the big guns. “You know,” Stiles says, “it would really be a shame if someone like the sheriff found out you were involved in what happened to the Hales. He was pretty good friends with Talia and Peter. I know he’s still trying to solve it. And if he found out it was related to what’s happening now?” He lets out a whistle. “Pretty sure you could be arrested for conspiracy to commit murder. Obstruction of justice, if nothing else.” He sees that Harris is narrowing his eyes, so he continues. “I mean, it might not stick. But it wouldn’t be good for your reputation, that’s for damned sure. You’d probably lose your job. And if whoever’s killing the omegas found out you were talking to the cops? That probably wouldn’t end well for you, right?”

Harris stares hard at them for a long minute. Then he says, “If you are so stupid that you think that the threat of losing my job is even remotely on par with the threat of what the Argent pack would do to me if I crossed them, you are never going to graduate high school. Come with me.”

Stiles perks up a little at this despite the insult, thinking that Harris is taking them to somewhere private so he can talk to them without being afraid of being overheard. Instead, all he does is take them to an equipment room that’s filled with all the dirty beakers, test tubes, and other things that the chemistry classes have been using. “All this needs to be cleaned up,” he says, waving a hand at the mess. “Organized, and put away. There are gloves and safety goggles over there.”

“Are you kidding, this’ll take hours,” Cora says, staring at the debris in dismay.

“Probably,” Harris says. “And if it’s not done when I come in to work tomorrow morning, you’re both going to have detention every day for the next two weeks. Now if you don’t mind, I’m leaving.”

“What if we do mind?” Stiles calls after him, but Harris’ determined stride never slows. He looks around. “Shit. That backfired.”

“We probably deserve it,” Cora says glumly. “I mean, we did sort of try to blackmail him.”

“Yeah.” Stiles dons a pair of gloves and says, with a sigh, “The quicker we start, the quicker we’re done.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Lacrosse practice ends at four, and Allison’s waiting outside the locker room and gives him this saucy smile and come hither look, which Scott is powerless to resist. They wind up making out in a supply closet, both of them laughing almost as much as they’re kissing. “This is so stupid,” Scott says.

“Uh huh,” Allison agrees, eyes sparkling as she swoops in for another kiss.

He tangles his hands in her hair and they kiss for what feels like hours, and her skirt is hiking up more and more with each passing moment and her legs are amazing and Scott is going out of his mind a little. He’s starting to get close to the point of no return when Allison’s phone rings and startles them both. “Oh, geez,” Allison says, laughing. “It’s my dad.”

“Don’t tell him I’m here!” Scott says, and Allison just smiles and holds her finger up to her lips as she taps the phone.

“Hey, Dad . . . no, sorry, we just lost track of time after lacrosse practice. Okay . . . sure, okay. No, I have some money, you can just pay me back later. Can Scott come over for dinner? Okay! See you soon.” She hangs up. “Dad wants me to pick up some dinner on the way home. You’re invited.”

“Okay,” Scott says, smiling, and twining his fingers through hers. “Oh, that reminds me. My mom wanted to invite you guys over next weekend. I mean, you and your mom and dad, too. We’re eating with Stiles and his family, so it’d be nice, like a party almost.”

“That sounds great,” Allison says. “I’ll tell my dad, I’m sure he’ll want to. I mean, I think your mom and Stiles’ dad are really the only friends he has in town. And . . . Peter Hale, but I guess he doesn’t count. Aaaand I’m not even supposed to know he’s alive, so, we don’t talk about that.”

Scott glances sideways at her. “Your Dad goes to visit him, huh?”

“Yeah, three times a week,” Allison says with a nod. “He’s really torn up about it.”

Scott hesitates. “Were he and your dad . . .?”

“Oh, yeah,” Allison says, matter-of-fact. “Mom and Dad don’t exactly talk about it, but I’ve known my dad was gay since I was about fourteen. He and Mom were an arranged marriage because of all the wolf stuff, and they’ve slept in separate bedrooms as long as I can remember. I mean, they’re okay with it, they’re best friends. I didn’t know about Peter until we moved here, but trust me, I know my dad, and he and Peter were tight.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what my mom said,” Scott says. He frowns as they head into the parking lot. “That’s weird. Stiles’ Jeep is still here.”

“Didn’t he have detention?” Allison asks.

“Yeah, but it’s nearly five, he should have been out of here over an hour ago.” Scott pulls out his phone and dials. “Hey, what are you still doing at school?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles groans. “Harris gave me and Cora this horrible cleaning project to do and we’re barely halfway done. We’re going to be here until I’m using a walker.”

Scott grins despite himself. “You want some help?”

“Yes! Yes, I want all the help,” Stiles says.

“Okay, I’ll – ” Scott remembers Allison and says, “Uhm, I mean, not that I don’t want to have dinner with you, but – ”

“I’ll come help a bit,” Allison says. “It’s probably not as bad as Stiles is making it out to be.”

“Okay,” Scott says, and then into the phone, “Where are you guys?”

“Over in the science wing, two doors down from Harris’ classroom, there’s this equipment room there,” Stiles says. “You’re the best. I’ll owe you one.”

The two of them troop back into the school and find Stiles and Cora still toiling away in the equipment room. Despite what Stiles had said, he and Cora have made good progress and are probably about three quarters of the way through the task. Allison starts helping Cora stack the petri dishes while Scott helps Stiles clean the disgusting counters.

About ten minutes have passed when Scott starts to feel a little edgy. He’s not sure why. He feels like someone is watching him, like he’s seeing things out of the corner of his eye that are gone when he goes to take a closer look. His vision starts to blur in and out of a sea of red, and he’s almost vibrating, he’s so tense.

“Hey, Scotty?” Stiles is the first to notice. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t – I don’t know. I feel – ” Scott clenches his fists, letting his claws dig into his palms. Pain is grounding, Chris had told him. Pain reminds you that you’re human. He shakes his head rapidly, like he’s shaking off water. “I don’t feel right.”

Allison looks over at him, reaches out and smoothes down his hair. Her touch is soothing, but at the same time he wants to shy away, like a wild animal.

“What’s going on?” Cora asks, her voice sharp, an ice pick in his ear.

“I’m not sure,” Allison says, “but I think we’d better get him out of here. We should – ”

There’s a crash then, and both Cora and Stiles jump as a large hunk of metal lands on the floor, knocking over a chair on its way by. They all stare at it, even Scott. It’s something mechanical. “Is that – part of my Jeep?” Stiles asks, his voice rising several notches in alarm, and he stumbles over to the window with the others on his heels.

In the last of the day’s fading light, they can see a creature perched on the hood of his Jeep. It’s easily twice the size of the average person, covered in dark fur and with gleaming red eyes. Stiles lets out a yelp and stumbles backwards, away from the window. “Oh my God! It killed Roscoe!”

“Wha – ” Allison starts to say, and then another chunk of the Jeep crashes through the window. “Time to go,” she decides, grabbing Scott by the wrist. Stiles and Cora hasten to follow her. They run from the equipment room and down the hallway. Just as they reach the main lobby, the alpha bursts in through the front doors.

Stiles skids and turns like he’s in a comedy act, overbalancing and tumbling to the floor. Scott just stops dead, _staring_ , and Allison executes a turn much more smooth than Stiles. Cora doesn’t turn at all. She gives one wrist a quick jerk and suddenly she’s holding a knife. She stands over Stiles protectively as he manages to scramble back to his feet.

“This way!” Allison shouts, turning down towards the locker rooms and the gymnasium. The others follow along, and then Stiles ducks into the boys’ locker room.

“In here, we can hide in the lockers,” he says.

“You can’t hide from an alpha, Stiles,” Allison says. “It can smell us, it can hear our hearts beating – ”

Stiles grabs his phone and starts hitting buttons. A few minutes later, it starts playing a YouTube video that he and Scott had made about a year previous. He chucks the phone into the storage closet and then ushers the others behind some of the lockers. All of them crouch down. Scott is holding his head in his hands, breathing rapidly, trying to hold himself together. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s on fire. He can smell his friends, smell the blood in their veins and the way their hearts are rabbiting along, and he wants to sink his claws and his teeth in, feel their flesh rend under his fingers –

There’s a quiet creak as the door to the locker room opens. Cora gets a better grip on her knife, white-knuckling it and staying closest to the front where she can defend them. Stiles can see the alpha’s shadow as it moves further into the room and then – yes – it takes the bait, heading into the storage closet. He bolts out and slams the door shut, jerking the key out of the lock. “Yes!”

“That’s not going to hold it for long,” Allison says, and moments later there’s a loud thump as the alpha slams against the inside of the door and everything in the locker room rattles.

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for,” Cora says. She tries to yank Scott up off the floor, but he bares his teeth and snarls at her. “Whoa!”

“Scott,” Allison says, kneeling in front of him. She keeps her voice calm. “Scott, come on. We need to go now.”

Scott draws in a harsh breath but stumbles to his feet. “Yeah. Sorry, Cora. I – ”

“Talk later,” Stiles says, as there’s another huge thump. Part of the door bends outward and a gap opens up. A few moments later, a clawed hand emerges, easily twice the size of his own, shredding the material of the door. “Holy shit,” Stiles says, just _staring_ , fascinated despite himself, at the power of the creature.

“Go! Now!” Cora says, shoving him towards the door.

They’re halfway to the nearest exit when the door from the locker room to the hallway just explodes outwards and the alpha launches itself at them, covering all the ground they’ve covered in two single bounds and knocking Scott to the floor. Allison goes stumbling and lands hard, although she catches herself and goes into a roll. Cora pivots neatly, holding the knife in between two fingers and letting it leave her hand in a glittering blur.

For a moment it seems to hang in the air while the alpha crouches over Scott, one hand wrapped around his throat, and then it hits the alpha in the shoulder. It shrieks, a high-pitched, breathless noise, and is knocked backwards several inches by the force of Cora’s throw. Then it grabs the knife in one hand and yanks it out, sending scarlet drops of blood spattering to the floor.

It only takes a moment for the alpha to regain its balance, but the moment is enough for Stiles and Allison to grab Scott, hoist him upwards, and slam into the nearest classroom with Cora on their heels. “The desk,” she says, and she and Stiles shove it in front of the door. They all wait, cringing, for the alpha to start breaking down the door. But it doesn’t.

“What’s it doing?” Stiles whispers.

“Aaaaah!” Scott doubles over, holding his head in his hands. He looks up at the others, gaze trained on Cora and Stiles, the scrape on Stiles’ elbow that’s slowly oozing blood. “I’m sorry, I can’t – don’t know how much longer I can control it!”

Cora looks at the door. “It’s not coming in, it doesn’t need to come in,” she says. “It just needs to keep us in here with him until he loses control. It wants him to kill us.”

Stiles looks over at Allison, but she’s whipping out her phone, so he kneels in front of Scott. “Scotty, hey,” he says. “You can do this, okay? I know you can, because you’re not going to hurt any of us, because that’s not you. Okay?”

“Dad?” Allison’s on her phone. “Dad, we need your help, we’re at the school, the alpha’s here, it’s trying to – a classroom on the first floor, close to the B wing entrance. It’s not trying to get in, it’s trying to make Scott lose control. Okay.” She sets her phone down, then reaches out for Scott’s hand. “Hey, help’s on the way, okay?” she says, smiling at him. “You’re going to be fine, Scott. I know it. You just listen to the sound of my voice.”

“I – I’m trying – ” Scott looks up and his gaze locks on Cora again. “I’m sorry – ”

Allison’s jaw tenses. “Stiles, Cora, get out of here,” she says. “I can handle Scott.”

“Are you – ” Stiles starts.

“I’ll be fine. I know how to act around feral wolves and I’m not _bleeding_.” She points to the door. “Go. Go!”

Stiles looks at Cora. She nods. They push the desk away from the door and ease it open. A quick look around the hallway reveals nothing, so they leave the classroom. “Where to?” Stiles whispers.

Cora looks around and then points. Right near the office, there’s a unisex bathroom. It has a bolt lock. It won’t hold them forever, but it’s better than nothing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris breaks half the traffic laws ever invented on his way to Beacon Hills High, and given that there’s regular evening traffic out and about, receives more than his fair share of honked horns and middle fingers. He barely even notices. He’s got Allison on speaker in his passenger seat, and he can hear her talking calmly and evenly to Scott. He can hear Scott’s heavy breathing even over the phone. Occasionally, Allison will say something that’s directed to Scott, but clearly meant to give Chris a status update. “I still don’t hear anything outside, Scott,” she says, or, “Your hands are bleeding, why don’t you ease up with your claws a little?”

He pulls up outside the school and doesn’t even bother to look for a parking space. He just slams the car to a halt and lopes up to the school door. It’s locked, but it only takes him a few moments to wrench it open. He looks around as he goes inside, trying to figure out which classroom Scott and Allison are holed up in.

He’s about to head for a closed door when he sees a shadow down the hall, and then footsteps. He tenses, grits his teeth, and heads in that direction, wishing there was someone at his back. If Victoria had been home, he would have brought her, but she was at her book club. It’s so mundane that it’s ridiculous. He should have called her; she’s going to kick his ass when she finds out.

But when he rounds the corner, he doesn’t see any hulking alphas or bloody corpses. Instead there’s a woman standing there, looking at him in obviously fake surprise. “Oh, hey, Chris,” the familiar voice says, and Chris feels like every nerve in his body is about to snap as Kate walks towards him. “What are you doing here?”

“You?” Chris asks, trying to work through it. “ _You’re_ the alpha?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Kate says, laughing. “What’s so wrong with me being an alpha? It’s my birthright anyway.”

Chris starts to slot the pieces in order, but he’s still reeling from it. “How? When?”

“Couple years back. While you were gone.” Kate shrugs. “Some asshole showed up, started talking shit. Dad could’ve killed him, but decided to let me. A pack with two alphas is stronger. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to let me cut off his head when he’s seventy-seven, I mean, shit. That’s a pretty stupid tradition.”

On that note, Chris has to agree. “Why the fuck are you turning teenagers against their will?” he asks between gritted teeth.

Kate sighs. “Look. I’d just found the body of an omega we had promised protection to, cut in half. I was a little upset. I kind of . . . lost control.”

“You _lost control_ ,” Chris spits out. “Jesus. Mom was right about you. This is exactly why she didn’t want you to be an alpha.”

“Yeah, well, the fact that she was going to pass the mantle onto you instead of me, despite centuries of tradition, is what got her killed,” Kate says.

Chris has to take a deep breath before he can reply to that. “So you guys are admitting that now? Dad’s okay with that?”

“Come on, Chris, you’re not an idiot. You’ve known for years that Dad killed Mom and stole her power.” Kate just sounds disgusted. “Ward and June Cleaver, they weren’t. He wasn’t going to kill her. He figured he could rule from behind the throne just as well. But when he found out about _that_ – oh, man. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so mad. That Mom considered you more worthy of being an alpha than me, I mean, my feelings aren’t hurt. Mom was weak, just like you. That’s just the way it was.”

“You want to see how weak I am?” Chris growls, feeling the shift come over him.

“Chris, you don’t want to fight me.” Kate says it matter-of-factly. “Not only have I been fighting every day while you’ve been off herding sheep in Wyoming, I’m an alpha now. I’ll give you all your teeth back in a baggie. Look, I’m sorry about Scott, okay? He seems like a good kid. I’ll try to talk Dad into taking him into the pack, since it was my fault.”

“The last thing I want for Scott is for him to be in that cult that you and Dad are trying to pass off as a pack,” Chris growls.

“Fine, whatever,” Kate says impatiently. “He’s useless anyway. This was my last ditch attempt to try to make him into a real wolf, but forget it, if you’re going to be an asshole about it. If you’d stop killing all the fucking omegas, I wouldn’t even have to worry about it.”

“For God’s sake, Kate,” Chris says. “I showed you my eyes – ”

“Yeah, eyes turn blue if you kill an _innocent_ ,” Kate says. “None of those omegas are in any way innocent, and you damned well know it. I know you’re the one doing it, Chris. Why the hell else would you have come back? It might’ve taken you six years to scrape up the balls, but you know as well as I do that you’re the only person with reason to kill those omegas.”

Chris hesitates, trying to feel the situation out a little more. “Derek – ” he says.

“Give me a break,” Kate says. “Derek hasn’t left the books he lives in for the last five years. He’s a Pillsbury Dough Boy. Is he capable of murder, yeah, maybe. But fast, efficient, ruthless murder – well, shit, Chris, I’m actually kind of impressed with you if we’re gonna be honest.”

“That’s great,” Chris says. “I live for your approval.”

Kate snorts with laughter. “Yeah, but you’re not thinking it through,” she says. “If you’re still crying over what happened to the Hale family, why don’t you back the fuck up to the person who got them killed? Because that was you, Chris.”

Chris feels his stomach clench down on the words. “Bullshit,” he says.

“Come on! Half the pack knew you were fucking Peter Hale. You were the _only_ person outside the Hale family to know the way past their security. Now, I don’t think that you up and _gave_ it to someone, you’ve got way too much riding on your sense of honor for that, but someone got it out of you somehow. Magic or drugs or maybe just watching you do it all the time while you went to their place for your 3 AM booty calls that you think nobody knew about. You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants, and because of that, seven people wound up dead. Congratulations, big bro.”

Chris feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Of _course_ he’s thought about it. He’s spent the better part of the last six years wondering how the killers had gotten past the Hale’s security, wondering if he was somehow responsible. So he won’t argue that, because he simply doesn’t know. But there’s one thing that he won’t let slide. “I loved Peter,” he says. “I still love Peter. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

“Love is for the weak,” Kate says. “Love is only good for getting people to do what you want. And when it comes to that, well, at least I’m good at it.”

“Jesus, Kate,” Chris says, shifting back into his human form. “Leave Scott alone, okay? That’s all I came here to say or do. I came to help Scott, and my daughter.”

“Fine,” Kate says. “But stop killing the omegas. I mean it, Chris.”

She turns and walks away without another word.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Hiding in the handicapped bathroom down the hall and around the corner, the acoustics of the high school corridors carry their entire conversation to Stiles and Cora. Cora is quiet for most of it, wincing in sympathetic pain when Kate confirms that Gerard killed Chris’ mother, clenching her fists when Kate insults Derek. But then Kate accuses Chris of being the one who got the Hales killed, and some switch flips inside her, and she absolutely loses her shit. Stiles winds up tackling her to the ground before she can run out of the bathroom and demand justice. He has to get her in a headlock, and she blacks his eye with her flailing elbow. She gets free almost immediately, being about ten times better at physical combat, but he delays her long enough that by the time she gets out into the hallway, the others are gone.

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles groans, holding one hand over his eye as he staggers out into the hallway.

“I’m going to kill him,” Cora grits out.

“Come on, Cora – even if Kate’s right, it’s not like he _meant_ for your family to get killed. We don’t even know what happened. Let’s just – let’s just go find Allison and Scott. Think you can keep your shit together while we do that?”

“Yeah.” Cora grimaces and then relaxes a little. “Sorry about your face.”

“It’s okay, I was born with it,” Stiles says reflexively, and Cora groans. “Look, for now, let’s not say anything to the others about what we overheard. Allison’s really close with her aunt. I don’t know how she’ll feel about all of this. And you know that Scott can’t keep a secret worth half a damn.”

Cora nods thoughtfully. She’s calming down, inch by inch, although Stiles knows she’ll be on a short fuse for a while. “Chris didn’t exactly confirm killing the omegas, but he didn’t deny it either.”

“Well, shit, maybe we should just let him,” Stiles says. “I mean, they killed your family. If it’ll help Chris sleep at night to kill them all off, maybe that’s okay.”

“Not if it causes a pack war,” Cora says.

“But it won’t, right?” Stiles says. “If it were someone inside the Argent pack trying to stage a rebellion, then that would be a danger. But if it’s Chris – the worst that’ll happen is Kate will kill him before he finishes the job. Which, okay, that might not be cool either. Jesus. I don’t know.” He shakes his head as they keep walking. They find Scott and Allison in the school’s foyer a few minutes later. Chris is standing with them. Cora scowls at him, but doesn’t say anything untoward, for which Stiles is grateful.

“Are you okay?” he asks Scott.

“Yeah, I’m – all right,” Scott says. His voice is trembling and he’s clinging to Allison’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Stiles asks. “Dude, that was bad _ass_ , the way you fought off what it was doing to you.”

Scott manages a shaky smile, and then notices his swollen eye. “Dude, what happened to you?” he asks.

“Oh, I tripped and fell,” Stiles says. “Slammed my face into a God damned doorknob. Only me, huh?”

Chris shakes his head at them. “I’ll take you guys home,” he says.

“I have to stay here,” Stiles says, and everyone looks at him like he’s crazy. “I have to call my dad and tell him someone vandalized my Jeep. Unless you guys want to explain that we got attacked by werewolves, and I’m really thinking we don’t.”

Chris grimaces. “I’ll wait here with you, then. I can say that I was swinging by to pick Allison up.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, taking out his phone. He’s pretty sure that that won’t fool his father for a minute, but he’s sure as hell not volunteering to wait by himself. “Sounds good to me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commence part one of the two most depressing chapters I have ever written.... I am so sorry....
> 
> Also deserves a warning for blood and gore.

 

_then_

 

Mirielle was alpha for less than six months before she died.

Peter jolted awake to the sound of someone pounding on the door to their house. He knew who it was instantly. He had given Chris the security code to their perimeter gate and told him how to get past their security. But he was polite enough – or smart enough – not to just walk into their house in the middle of the night. He scrambled out of bed and headed downstairs, yanking the door open moments before Talia came down as well. Chris stood on the doorstep, pale and out of breath.

“What is it?” Peter demanded.

“My mother,” Chris said. “My mother’s dead.”

“Come inside,” Peter said. He peered out the door but saw nothing. If Chris had been followed, he couldn’t tell.

“I’ll double check the perimeter security,” Talia said, easing past Chris and out the door. Peter took the werewolf by the wrist and drew him into the kitchen.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are Allison and Victoria all right?”

“Yes,” Chris said. “I checked them into a hotel. Just – just to be on the safe side until we knew – what had happened.” He let out a breath. “My father is the alpha now.”

“Jesus,” Peter said. It didn’t really surprise him. “What happened?” he repeated.

“My mother – you know she had gone to meet with a number of other alphas in the area, to talk with them about the change in authority, even to promote living by the Code. My father went with her. They were ambushed during one of the meetings. My mother was – mortally wounded. My father killed her so nobody could steal the alpha power from our pack.”

Peter hesitated. He thought about asking if anyone had seen this happen, or if Chris was taking Gerard’s word that that was the way it had gone. Then he realized that it didn’t matter. Gerard was quite capable of hiring his thug work done; he had proved that when Peter was seventeen. Even if the ambush had been genuine, that by no means disproved Gerard’s involvement. “Chris, I’m so sorry,” he said.

Chris let out a shuddering breath. “We weren’t close. It shouldn’t . . .”

“She was your _mother_ ,” Peter told him. He looked up as Talia came in and gave a brief nod to indicate that their security was intact. He gave her a brief summary of what had happened. He saw the lines crease on her face and knew that she had come to the same conclusions that he had. “What did your father have to say about being alpha?” he asked, trying to be delicate.

“What you would expect. This is Mirielle’s pack, not his. He’ll do right by her legacy, and of course be willing to submit to the alpha inheritance ceremony when he’s seventy . . .”

“To Kate, though, not you,” Peter murmured.

Chris nodded and pressed his hands over his face.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Talia said. “Have you spoken to him?”

Chris nodded. “Yes. He seemed . . . genuinely upset. He even told me to come here to tell you what had happened. And that he’ll see you tomorrow, since he’s sure you’ll want to investigate.”

“Cocky bastard,” Peter muttered. He didn’t like that one tiny bit. “It could be a trap.”

Talia nodded. “Tell your father we’re happy to meet with him, but out of an abundance of caution, we’d prefer it be somewhere public. We can meet at the same park we had the picnic at. Just let us know what time.”

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Peter asked.

Chris shook his head. “No. I want to get back to Allison and Victoria.” He stood, and let Peter embrace him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter and Talia met Gerard at the park. He came alone, dressed in a black suit and a trenchcoat. If it was supposed to give the impression that he was in mourning, Peter thought he was full of shit. He knew how to read the expressions on people’s faces even when they tried to hide them, and more than anything, he thought Gerard looked satisfied and smug as hell.

“My condolences on the loss of your wife,” Talia said, a note of caution in your voice. “It’s a tragedy that she was taken so soon after becoming the alpha.”

“Thank you,” Gerard said gravely.

“You understand that we have some concerns,” Talia said. “I respect your decision to take the alpha power to keep it in your family. But you aren’t an Argent by birth, and in the past you’ve spoken disparagingly of the Code that they live by.”

“That’s true,” Gerard said. “I didn’t grow up with it. But Mirielle was my wife. I’ll honor her wishes.”

They talked for another few minutes. It felt like a strange boxing match to Peter. A jab here, a feint there. No blows were landed on either part. He felt an urge to walk backwards as they left the park, just in case someone took a shot at them.

“Didn’t seem much like a grieving widower,” he said, thinking back to their mother when Patrick had died.

“I agree,” Talia said. “I doubt he’ll make a move on us right away. But Chris . . .”

Peter nodded. “I’ll go to his place tonight. See if I can’t convince him to get out. He’s already at least thought about it, if he went to the trouble of tucking Victoria and Allison away in a hotel somewhere.” He went over things in his mind for a few minutes. “If at all possible, I’d like to get him out of town, but I can’t leave you here by yourself. Maybe Jocelyn or even Andrew could take him and his family somewhere and make sure he’s safe.”

“I think Jocelyn would be willing,” Talia agreed with a nod.

Peter spent most of the day making preparations. He had two safe houses in the city, and went to make sure that neither had been disturbed. It would be better to get Chris out of town, but since he might not agree, so local options are a must. He talks to Jocelyn, goes into the safe where they kept some fake identities. Better to be cautious.

He honestly has no idea whether or not Gerard will care if Chris walks away. He might think of it as a ‘good riddance’ sort of thing. But Peter suspects not. Gerard is too smart for that. He’ll want to take care of anyone who would have reason to take away his power. He doesn’t know if Gerard thinks Chris knows he killed Mirielle. To be fair, he doesn’t know himself if Chris knows that. It seems so obvious, but Chris has always had such a blind spot when it came to his father’s true nature.

When he gets home from doing that, everyone else is there. Kayla has come home from her day at the yoga studio; Andrew has agreed not to go out to the bar. Derek is sulking because he had a date with his girlfriend – the idea of Derek having a girlfriend seems ridiculous to Peter, wasn’t he just in diapers yesterday? – but he says he understands the need for safety, given the current climate. Laura is studying because she has a big test the next day. Cora is largely clueless to what’s going on, watching cartoons. Sean and Talia are double and triple checking all of their weapons and locks.

He waits until after midnight to go to the Hale family property. He wishes, not for the first time, that Chris had moved off their compound after his marriage, or at the least after his grandmother’s death. But he knows that the pack instincts are something he’ll never fully understand.

The compound is dark and quiet. He moves slowly, dressed in dark grey and blue, blending into the shadows. He’s not carrying his gun. Wolves can smell the cordite a hundred feet away. He’ll be better served with his knives and his wits.

There aren’t any lights on at Chris’ house. Peter knocks quietly, then risks it a little more loudly. Still no answer. He’s never gotten a key to Chris’ house – only been inside once for an ill-advised romp in the sheets that he had somehow talked Chris into – but it’s child’s play to pick the lock.

A quick exploration confirms that the house is empty. He looks into the garage and sees that it’s empty.

He should go. He knows that. Chris has presumably joined Victoria and Allison at whatever hotel he’s stashed them away at until this blows over. If they’re smart, it’s a hundred miles away. He hesitates, then dials Chris’ phone. It goes to voicemail. That could be because he’s asleep. Or driving. Or in the shower. Hell, maybe he forgot to charge it.

But Peter can’t confirm his whereabouts, and he decides to take a quick look around the compound. If Chris is there – he could be held captive, injured, even already dead. He needs to know. Needs to make sure that Chris isn’t being held somewhere against his will.

If he is, it’ll be at the main house. Gerard wouldn’t want news of _that_ getting around, as it would only cement everyone’s suspicions that he had killed Mirielle. Peter thinks back to all the times he promised Chris he would never sneak into the main house. Still. Desperate times, desperate measures.

The main house is huge, even bigger than the house all the Hales live in. Peter doesn’t dare approach the main door because he knows there’s always a guard there. The back door won’t open. He gets the lock to click, but it must have some additional bar over it, because it won’t budge. He climbs up to the third floor and tries a balcony door. The lock takes some finesse, but after a few moment it swings open silently.

He explores the house carefully, quietly. He doesn’t think that they’ll be keeping Chris in a closet somewhere, so he doesn’t check every nook and cranny. He knows that if even one werewolf is awake, they’ll hear his heartbeat. Will they realize it belongs to someone who shouldn’t be there? He doesn’t know. Either way, he wants to do this as quickly as possible.

‘As quickly as possible’ takes about half an hour. By then, he’s satisfied that Chris isn’t anywhere in the house. He must have gotten out already, must have decided to stay at the hotel with his wife and child. Satisfied, he turns and heads back home. He walks through the preserve, taking deep breaths of the chill night air.

Their security has two layers now. The outer fence is just that, a fence, just armed with booby traps. Anyone who doesn’t know the proper sequence of the locks will get blasted sky high. Their inner fence is electrified, and there’s a six-digit code to turn it off. Both of these were intact, and Peter didn’t have any reason to suspect that something was wrong until he got closer to the house. He made the bird call automatically, from years of practice. In times of danger, one of the adults would stay up and keep watch. The bird call signified that he wasn’t an enemy. Largely unnecessary, given the fences, but paranoia was a way of life for hunters.

He had taken another three steps, so accustomed to the routine that it took that extra second for him to realize he hadn’t gotten a response.

There was a knife in each hand before he had even had a chance to think about it, and he approached the house a little more cautiously. He heard nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all. He made another bird call, and again received no reply. By then he had come close enough to see that the front door was ajar. He nudged it open the rest of the way with his foot.

Kayla was the one who had been on watch, and she was lying dead in the front hall, ripped to pieces. The sight of her jolted something into gear inside Peter, and he abandoned caution, running into the house. He nearly tripped over Talia’s body as he skidded into the kitchen.

There was blood _everywhere_ ; the walls and the floor were covered in it. There were even some splashes on the ceiling. Claw marks in the walls, shattered furniture. The fight must have been magnificent. Talia was one of the best hunters in the world. But she had lost. There was a knife curled in her hand and her crossbow lay a few feet away, no bolt anywhere to be seen. She was still in one piece, but her throat was ripped wide open, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Talia.” Peter’s throat was closing rapidly. He didn’t even hear himself say it, going to his knees next to his sister’s body and fumbling for his phone, dialing 911. “I – I need an ambulance,” he said, then wondered what the hell the point was, she was dead, they were all dead. His phone slid from his hands, which were growing numb.

He staggered to his feet and continued to stumble through the house. He found Andrew where he had barricaded himself behind the sofa, and three empty guns beside him. Sean and his son Michael in the living room. Sean had been torn apart like his wife, and Michael had simply been slammed into the wall so many times that his head was a deformed mess.

Peter realized he wasn’t breathing and forced himself to take in air. He made a horrible wheezing noise that he didn’t even hear.

Jocelyn was the last one he found, and she was still alive, albeit barely. Her abdomen had been ripped open, and Peter could see things he knew he shouldn’t be able to see. “Jocelyn,” he said, grabbing a blanket off the sofa and pressing it into her stomach. “Jocelyn, it’s Peter. Can you hear me? You – ” He started to tell her it would be fine. But it wouldn’t be fine. Even if the ambulance was already there, she was going to die. “Tell me who did this. _Tell me_.”

His little sister pulled in a stuttering breath. Then it sighed out of her, and her body shuddered and went still.

“No, Joc – God damn it – ” Peter looked around wildly. He hadn’t found any of the children yet. He managed to pull himself back to his feet. “Laura? Derek!” he shouted, running towards the back of the house. Sean had installed the panic room right after they had moved in, lined it with mountain ash, made it virtually impregnable. Talia had drilled it into their heads for years. Get to the panic room. No matter what was happening, get to the panic room, don’t stop, don’t look back, just get there.

He heard a muffled sob from behind the wall and said, “Kids, it’s me, it’s Peter. You can come out now.”

A section of the wall slid open and Derek spilled into his arms. Peter can’t imagine what the last – how long? It wouldn’t have taken Jocelyn that long to die from her injuries. They were probably in there for fifteen minutes or so – had been like. The panic room was lined, but it wasn’t soundproof.

Fifteen minutes. If he had been there – if he had come straight back after finding Chris’ house empty –

He shoved the thought away with brutal force. There wasn’t time for it. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he said, as Laura came out, carrying Cora, who had her head tucked against Laura’s shoulder. “Come on outside, this way now – ” He guided them out the back door. He couldn’t take them through the rest of the house, couldn’t let them see that. Then he steered them around the building and they collapsed in a heap. “I have to go – open the gates for the police,” he said. “You three _stay here_. Shout if you need me.”

He was relatively sure that there were no werewolves anywhere on their property. They had come in, done their terrible business, and then left. But how had they gotten in? How had they gotten past the security? As far as Peter knew, only one person outside their family knew how to get through the fences, and that was Chris. And while it might be possible that the information could have been tortured out of him, it would have taken more than twelve hours.

By some miracle, he managed to keep himself scraped together long enough to open both fences and then make his way back to the children. Derek was staring at the house with wide eyes and a complexion like a ghost. Cora was just sobbing quietly in Laura’s shoulder while the older teenager tried desperately not to fall apart, to be strong for her younger siblings. Peter collapsed next to them and drew all three of them into his arms as best he could. He knew that he was covered in blood, and he didn’t even care.

Flashing lights approached before long, the squawk of radios, the crunch of tires on the dirt that led from the road through the preserve to their house.

“Peter?” a voice said, cautious, and it was Tom. He had to be working the night shift. They had sent police along with the ambulance, since Peter hadn’t actually told the 911 operator what was wrong. Peter looked up and tried to say something, but his throat was tight and aching, and he couldn’t say a word. Tom squeezed his shoulder and walked past him, and then they were swarmed by EMTs. It took effort to get Peter to let go of the three children so they could be checked out. Every nerve in his body told him to fight to keep a hold of them.

Eventually, they were all loaded up. He heard them asking him some questions, but couldn’t manage to answer. Even once he was at the hospital, and one of the deputies was trying to talk to him, all he could do was choke out little sobs.

“We’re going to give you something to help you relax, okay, Peter?” one of the nurses said, leaning over him, and Peter nodded. Let them sedate him. It didn’t matter. Nothing would be different when he woke up. His family would still be dead.

They slid the needle into his arm and he watched it with dull fascination. Then the nurse helped him lie back down. He closed his eyes and wondered how much blood there had been at the house. He would need to find out, because the Argents were going to pay back every drop.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris laid Allison’s sleeping body down onto the hotel bed and kissed her on the forehead. She stirred sleepily but didn’t wake. She had fallen asleep a few hours previous, while they drove away from Beacon Hills. Chris wanted to get them as far away as possible. “Are you sure about going back?” Victoria asked, sliding off her shoes and sitting down on the other bed.

Chris nodded. It had taken half the night to get this far, and now he was going to take the other half of the night driving back. But he needed to. Because of Peter, because of his mother, because of his pack. “I’ll call you when I get in.”

“Okay.” Victoria accepted his embrace and watched as he left the hotel room.

It was a long drive back to Beacon Hills, but that didn’t bother him. It was good to have some time to think about things. Everything was lined up properly in Wyoming. He wondered if he could talk Peter into coming with him. Things had been different between them, after Claudia’s death. Every meeting held that unspoken promise that someday, somehow, they would work things out and be together. He knew that Victoria wouldn’t mind. Without the pack, without the bullshit politics, things in Wyoming would be different. There would be room for Peter in his life, without all the sneaking around.

He knew that Peter was nomadic at heart, that he would always take his hunting trips and be involved in his business, but he couldn’t help but think that if he at least made the _offer_ , it would make things better for them. For Peter to know that Chris wants him there, in his life, in that way. To make up for what had happened all those years ago, when Peter had invited him to New York, and Chris had rejected him.

Things will be different now, and even though he lost his mother and his life was in turmoil, he found himself smiling as he drove.

He listened to some music for a while, then at six AM, turned the radio to the news. They were talking about the war in Afghanistan for the first few minutes, then the stock market.

“Locally, tragic news out of Beacon Hills this morning,” the woman continued, “where a family was killed by an animal attack. Their identities haven’t been released yet, but police confirm that six people were killed in their home in an unusual display of aggression from what seems to have been a pack of wolves.”

Chris’ car skidded off the road and nearly into a ditch. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he sat there in the breakdown lane. It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be. He fumbled for his phone and dialed Peter.

It rang seven times and then went to voicemail.

He tried again. Same response.

He tried Talia. Again, the same response.

He sat there, stunned and panicked, for almost an entire minute, not knowing what to do. He was at least an hour away from Beacon Hills, and he didn’t think he could make the drive not knowing what had happened. He scrolled through his contact list and dialed Tom.

Thankfully, he picked up on the second ring. “Deputy Stilinski.”

“Tom, it’s Chris.” His voice cracked, but he was beyond embarrassment. “I heard – heard on the radio – a family was killed by an animal attack. Was – was it – ”

Tom interrupted him, almost gently. “Chris. There’s an open investigation. I can’t say anything.”

“Just tell me if Peter’s all right,” Chris said desperately. “Just tell me that much. Please.”

There was a moment of hesitation in which Chris nearly lost his mind. Then Tom said, “Peter’s fine, Chris. He’s at the hospital with the kids.”

“I’m – I’m about an hour away but I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Chris said. He hung up without saying goodbye, dropped the phone aside, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. When rational thought emerged a few moments later, he realized that Tom had been a lot kinder than he could have been. By saying Peter was at the hospital, he had basically confirmed that it was the Hale family that had been attacked, and by saying ‘with the children’ he implied that they, at least, had survived.

The radio had said six people had been killed. If Peter and the children were all right, that meant every other member of the Hale family had been killed. Talia, Jocelyn, Sean, Kayla, Mike, and Andrew. His stomach turned just thinking about it. He put it out of his mind as best as he could, and focused on driving.

He didn’t know where in the hospital to go, so he went where he knew he would find someone who could help – the emergency room. Melissa was behind the desk, and she looked up when he came in. He could see the heartbreak in her eyes as she jolted to her feet. “Chris,” she said, coming around the desk and embracing him.

“Where is he?” Chris asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Last time I checked, he was unconscious,” Melissa said. “I’ll let the staff back there know you’re here.”

“What happened?” Chris asked. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of waiting, but he knew that arguing or bursting in wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“I don’t know, Chris, I guess just – somehow some wolves got into the house. The kids hid in a closet and I guess Peter must have been out somewhere. He came home and found the bodies and called 911.”

“Jesus,” Chris said, trying to imagine what that must have been like for Peter. His mind instinctively shied away from the very idea. “But the kids are okay?”

“None of them are hurt, but Jesus, they hid in a closet and listened to their family get killed, I can’t – ” Melissa broke off and took a deep breath. “I’m going to go let Peter know you’re here, okay? You just wait here. Get yourself a cup of coffee from the staff lounge – it’s on me.”

Chris nodded and began to pace around the room, trying to stay calm. It occurred to him that he should call Victoria, who was waiting to hear from him. He went outside and took out his phone. She picked up on the first ring, a hint of anxiety in her voice. “I saw on the news – ”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “Peter survived, he wasn’t at the house. And the kids. I know that the house had a panic room lined with mountain ash; they must have hidden in there. Everyone else was killed.”

“Chris, I’m sorry,” Victoria said. “Have you – talked to your father?”

“No.” Chris wanted to protest, wanted to say that he wouldn’t do this, but he knew that saying that was stupid. “I have to go. I’ll call you when I can.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I will.” Chris hung up and went back into the waiting room.

Melissa found him later. “You might as well go for a little while,” she said, and Chris automatically shook his head. She gripped him by the wrist. “Chris. They had to sedate him, he was – he was in shock. The police couldn’t really get anything out of him. He won’t even be awake for a few more hours and then they’re going to have Tom talk to him, they think maybe he’ll respond better to a friend.”

“I want to see him,” Chris said.

“I can let you look in for a minute, but he’s not going to wake up, okay?” Melissa said, and Chris nodded. He followed her through a set of doors to a curtained off area towards the back of the emergency room. “The kids are in another room with a social worker and a crisis counselor, I don’t think anyone can go see them right now,” she said, as they walked. She glanced at the numbers on the little whiteboards and then pushed a curtain aside. “In here.”

Chris nodded and went inside. Peter was asleep in the bed, with a blood pressure cuff on one arm and an IV in the other. There was a smear of blood that had dried on his forehead. But he was alive. Chris could watch his chest rise and fall. He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and Peter didn’t stir.

Melissa gave him a minute, and then gently cleared her throat. Chris turned and walked back out of the little cubicle. “Thanks for letting me see him,” he said. “Can you call me when he’s awake? I can come pick him up when he’s done talking to Tom.”

“Sure,” Melissa said, nodding. Chris left the hospital and headed back home.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter woke with a start and was halfway through trying to get the IV out of his arm before he calmed down enough to realize that trying to run out of his hospital room was only going to get him sedated again. He forced himself to take several deep breaths. Then several more. Each one hit him in the gut like a brick. Finally, he managed to collect himself enough to press the call button.

A nurse bustled in mere moments later. She was calmly professional and didn’t try to pretend everything was okay as she checked his vitals. “Where are the children?” Peter asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“They’re in with a counselor,” the nurse said. “They’re fine.”

Peter nodded a little and asked for a glass of water. She brought him one and said the doctor would be in to see him shortly. Peter endured his exam, answered his questions about where he was and the date and who the president was. The doctor proclaimed that he was fine, nothing more than severe shock secondary to emotional trauma, and said they would have him discharged within the hour.

He was still sitting there with his glass of water when Tom came in. He looked incredibly weary, in a way that he hadn’t since Claudia’s death. He squeezed Peter’s shoulder and sat down in the room’s only chair. “Just have to ask you a few questions,” he said, and Peter nodded. “Can you tell me what happened? Take it as slow as you need to.”

“I was out last night,” Peter said. “You know. Socially.” He wasn’t about to tell the police about werewolves. “I came home around one. Our gate was still locked, but when I got to the house, the door was open. There were . . .” He had to stop and fight nausea for a minute. He had seen bodies before. Hell, he had created more than his fair share. But this. This was different. “There was a lot of blood.” He continued to speak in a dry, cracking voice, detailing how he had found the bodies, then the children. “I took them out through the back. Then I opened the fence so the ambulance could get through.”

Tom took some notes and nodded along. “They, uh . . . they’re saying it looks like it was an animal attack,” he said.

Peter looked away. “Mm hm,” was all he said in reply. He knew that Tom was smarter than that. But he also knew that Tom had no idea what was going on, that he was struggling to comprehend what had happened in the Hale house.

“It’ll be some time before there’s any sort of official report,” Tom said, shifting uncomfortably. “I’ve got your number, so . . . once the hospital has your discharge papers done, you’ll be good to go. Uh. What do you want to do about the children?”

“The children?” Peter blinked at him slowly, feeling stupid. “Oh, yes. They . . . I suppose I would be their next-of-kin.”

“Well, not necessarily,” Tom said. “What about their father?”

Peter raked a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I have no idea who any of their fathers are. Talia never had the patience for romance. She didn’t want a man in her life that she would have to share and compromise with. As far as I know, they’re all the result of one-night stands or short affairs with men that she saw fit to father her children. If she kept any record of who they are, you might find them in her papers, but personally I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Tom said. “Presuming that we can’t locate any interested paternal relatives . . .”

Peter nodded. “Yes, of course I’ll take them.” He swallowed. “I’ll just – need a little time. I don’t have a steady job, you know – I worked the odd job here and there. And we’ll need a place to stay.” That would buy him time to find out who had been responsible for his family’s murder, and kill every single one of them in a gruesome spectacle. “Could – could someone take them for a few weeks?”

“I’ll talk to the social worker about it,” Tom said. He smiled and say, “Maybe Cora could come stay with me for a little while. She and Stiles always got on like a house on fire when they were younger.”

“Yes. That would be nice. I . . . I would appreciate that. Truly.”

The nurse came in and said, “I have your discharge papers here, Mr. Hale. I just need a signature . . .”

Tom stood up. “You probably shouldn’t be driving anywhere,” he said. “Chris Argent is here to pick you up.”

“Is he?” Peter said, blinking slowly. “All right. Can you tell him I’m going to stop in to see the children and then I’ll meet him in the main lobby?”

“Sure. He’s been waiting a while anyway. A little longer won’t kill him.” Tom left the room. Peter signed the papers he needed, and stared at his blood-soaked clothes, feeling fury and bloodlust build up inside him. The nurse said she would see if she could find some spare clothes for him to wear. Ten minutes later, he was dressed in some pale blue scrubs. She walked him down the hallway to the room where the children were waiting.

Laura was obviously trying to put on a brave face for her two younger siblings, and she pasted on a weak smile when he came in. Derek was huddled in a corner, not talking to anyone, and Cora was curled up half in his lap. There was a social worker who had obviously already talked to Tom, because she pulled Peter aside to talk about temporary placement for them. He nodded to everything she said, because he couldn’t even think about that right now. The sight of the blood on his clothes had enraged him to the point that he was having difficulty forming words. He hugged Laura, smoothed down Derek’s hair, gave Cora a kiss on the forehead.

“I have some things to do,” he said, mostly to Laura, because she would understand what those things were. “They’re going to find a place for you kids to stay for a week or two, and then I’ll be back to pick you up. Call me if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay, Uncle Peter,” she said, with that same weak, watery smile.

Peter thanked the social worker, shook her hand, and headed out to the lobby. Chris was standing there, and the naked relief on his face when he saw Peter was painful. “Hey,” he said. “Are you – I mean, obviously you’re not okay, but I – ”

“I’m all right, Chris,” Peter said quietly. “I just need to get out of here.”

“Okay.” Chris headed out to the car. He even opened the passenger door so Peter could get in. Peter sat in silence while he put the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. “I talked – to my father,” Chris said awkwardly.

“I’m sure he disclaims any responsibility,” Peter said. His voice came out mild, casual. He was impressed with himself. He actually sounded sane. “But we both know that he was behind it.”

“He says – and this is at least somewhat fair – that he wouldn’t have done it right away. He would have been smarter about it. He says that one of our rival packs is trying to frame us. Maybe even someone within the pack who’s angry about the way he became the alpha.”

Peter stared out the window as Chris drove. “Let me be clear on something, Chris,” he said. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I don’t care what your father said to you, because I don’t trust any of you. Not a single, solitary one.”

Chris grimaced. “Peter, you don’t – ”

“Do you know how many people had the code to our inner fence who weren’t in my family?” Peter interrupted. “One. You. And the fence wasn’t mangled. It was disarmed, correctly. By someone who knew how to do it. Someone knew how to get around our security. Maybe one of your father’s lackeys had tailed you and watched you do it. I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. I’m going to find out, Chris, and then I’m going to kill everyone who was involved in this. I’m going to _destroy_ them. If I have to, I will destroy your entire pack and salt the fucking earth.”

There was a pause while Peter struggled for composure. Chris thought it was best not to interrupt him. “You know who I am,” Peter finally said. “You know what I’m capable of.”

“I do,” Chris said, nodding slowly.

“Then you’ll believe me when I say that if you were involved in this,” Peter said, his voice dry and cracking, “it won’t matter to me that you were sucking my dick two weeks ago. I will put a bullet in your head. I’ll do it _while_ you’re sucking my dick so you’ll never see it coming. I don’t care if you bite it off. I don’t care about _anything_. Do you understand that?”

Chris forced himself to take a deep breath, in and out, before replying. “What about the children?”

“The _children_.” Peter laughed, a noise tinged with bitterness and hysteria. “Ah, yes. The children. Let’s be frank here, Christopher. They’d probably be better off in a foster home anyway. Don’t get me wrong. I’m their uncle, and if I survive this, I will take them in and do everything I can to be a father to them. But there’s a reason I don’t have kids of my own. Now pull over. I don’t want you knowing where I’m headed anyway.”

“Okay.” Chris pulled the car to the side of the road without argument. Then he turned and looked at Peter. “And once you verify that I wasn’t involved in this?”

Peter’s face twisted with the effort to hold back the well of emotions that were screaming for some sort of release. Tears were streaming down his cheeks despite everything. “If you weren’t . . .” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Chris’ shoulder. “If you weren’t, then . . .”

Chris waited, and when Peter didn’t pull away, he reached out to hesitantly rub a hand over Peter’s hair. Not surprisingly, Peter slapped his hand away.

“But only then,” he said. “Only then.”

He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him, leaving nothing but the overwhelming scent of grief and rage.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this chapter. I cried while writing the middle, then laughed while writing the end. =D

 

_now_

 

By the time Chris finally gets home that evening and finishes explaining everything to Victoria, he’s exhausted. They don’t even bother making dinner, but just eat some sandwiches. He takes a walk in the woods to clear his head.

Kate. An alpha. It throws most of his theories into disarray. Any thought of this being some sort of interior pack struggle is gone. Kate and Gerard are both alphas, and they’re working together.

It’s obvious that Kate is truly convinced that he’s the one killing the omegas. Chris can see why. If he’d had the information, he might have done it himself, that much is true. He’s not a killer by nature, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

That only left Derek.

It’s hard for Chris to picture. He still sees Derek as the spoiled, cocky fifteen year old he had been when the attack had happened. But his few brief encounters since returning to town had proven that he had changed dramatically in the years since. He’s quiet now, almost too quiet. Still waters run deep, the saying goes. And it would explain why the murderer had made sure he never hurt Scott when he got in the way, but always just knocked him aside.

He wonders what, if anything, he should do about this.

Derek killing the omegas who killed his family seems completely reasonable to Chris. Even though he had never been formally trained, he’s a hunter from a family of hunters. Why would he do anything different?

If Eloise had still been in charge, if this had all happened thirty years ago, Chris is sure that she would have given her acquiescence if Patrick Hale had requested permission to hunt down these omegas on her territory. So if he, Chris, were the alpha, he would do the same. He would look the other way and maybe say a word or two about making sure he was discreet. That was the relationship between an allied pack and a hunter family – the way it was _supposed_ to be.

He thinks back to what Patrick had said to him after the prom. About wanting peace, true peace, not just a mutual ceasefire. He wonders if that’s even possible. At the time, he had wanted to believe that it was. But he’s a lot older now, a lot wiser, and a hell of a lot sadder. He had never chosen sides in the ongoing, quiet war, and now he wonders what would have happened if he had.

Regardless, Derek’s going to get himself killed sooner rather than later, if he keeps this up. Kate’s agreed to leave Scott alone, but she probably won’t. Even if she does, there are other ways she can get to him. As long as she and Gerard are convinced it’s Chris, Derek is safe. But how long will it take her to figure out that it isn’t?

He goes back to the house and sleeps restlessly. He needs to talk to Derek. They’ll iron this out, somehow. He’s not even sure what he’ll say. How can he convince Derek that this sort of vendetta isn’t worth it? That Kate and Gerard aren’t the sort of people who lose? That even if he kills all the omegas, they’ll destroy him?

Since he’s keen on avoiding Melissa – and Scott, for that matter – he waits until mid-morning to go to the McCall house. When he rings the bell, there’s no answer. He doesn’t see any cars in the garage, so he decides to wait. Derek has a life, obviously, he’s in school, so he presumes he’ll be home at some point. He just hopes that will be before Melissa gets home.

It is. The Camaro rolls into the driveway at about five past two. Derek clearly sees Chris waiting in his SUV across the street, because instead of going in through the garage, he walks out into the driveway, glowering. “What do you want?” he greets Chris.

“Just to talk,” Chris says.

Derek glares at him for a minute, then says, “Let me leave a note for Scott. He’s going to be home from school in about half an hour.” He stalks into the house without another word. When he comes out a few minutes later, Chris can smell the silver he’s carrying under his jacket. He thinks about mentioning it, then decides against it. “This way,” he says, and heads down the path that leads into the preserve. They walk about five minutes in silence. Then Derek apparently judges that they’re far enough away from the house, because he stops and says, “Okay. Talk.”

Chris takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Look,” he says, “I know that I can never understand what happened to your family, and I know that you don’t have any reason to trust me.”

“Did you seriously come here to tell me things I already know?” Derek asks, voice heavy with annoyance.

“I came here to tell you to stop killing omegas,” Chris says.

Derek blinks. Then his eyes narrow. “Assuming I have, why the fuck would I listen to anything you have to say?”

“I know that the omegas being killed are the same ones that attacked your family,” Chris says, “and I know that you’ve got every right to seek retribution. But you don’t understand what my pack is capable of.”

“Don’t I?” Derek says.

“Look, I don’t know who planned the attack, but we both know it wasn’t my father. He never would have done something so blatantly obvious right after getting the mantle of power.”

Derek stares at him. “You – you really don’t know, do you,” he says.

Chris stops, and considers very carefully. “Don’t know what?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Cora, for Christ’s sake, slow _down_ ,” Stiles groans, as he follows her into the McCall house. Scott’s gone off with Allison as usual, and Stiles was planning to go home and actually do his homework for once, when Cora had gotten a text from Derek. It read, ‘Chris is here. Going to talk with him.’ Cora had gone into instant panic-rage mode, grabbing the keys from the Jeep from Stiles and driving over to the McCall house at what felt like light speed.

“He left a note for Scott,” Cora reports in a short, clipped voice. “Says he was going for a walk in the preserve.”

“Great, then let’s,” Stiles says, but Cora’s already gone. He jogs after her. “Will you calm down? Chris isn’t going to hurt your brother.”

“He betrayed my family,” she snarls.

“You don’t _know_ that,” Stiles says, and in fact he’s pretty sure that Chris didn’t.

He lay awake most of the night, trying not to think about the theory that had wormed into his brain. It’s a terrible theory, and he hates it, but he thinks it would explain a lot.

He was thinking about Derek’s mysterious girlfriend. Blonde, just like Kate. Older, just like Kate. Mysteriously never spoken of after the attack. Why?

He was thinking about what Kate had said the previous day, about how love was only good for getting people to do what you wanted, and how she was good at it. About the general profile of a psychopath, how they’re charming and manipulative but completely devoid of conscience. About the way Kate had been so quick to place blame for the security breach onto Chris, to make him believe that he was the one at fault, so he would never stop to think about exactly how the killers had gotten in.

He was thinking about Derek’s list of werewolves in the area, about a curiosity on it that had caught his eye but he hadn’t had time to address. Every werewolf in there, omega or Argent pack member alike, had a short bio. Who could be trusted and who couldn't. Even Chris had one, just a short blurb that said ‘loyal to the code, friend to the Hales, left town 6 years previous’. Every werewolf in that folder had a bio. Every werewolf except Kate.

Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times . . .

“Cora, God damn it, _wait up_ ,” Stiles shouts, as his sister quickly outpaces him. He’s not slow, he’s played lacrosse and they do track in the off-season, but he’s no athlete either. No martial artist gymnastics whiz who thinks doing a 5K is a fun warmup. It doesn’t help that he trips twice and he’s pretty sure that he sprains his ankle the second time.

He finally manages to catch up just as Cora is pushing in front of her brother and pointing a gun in Chris’ direction. Stiles takes a moment to wonder irrelevantly where she’s getting all these fucking weapons from. Does she carry them all the time? Where did she get them? Is it wrong for him to be somewhat attracted to his sister when she starts pulling out knives and guns?

“Stay away from him!” Cora shouts.

“Cora,” Derek starts to say.

Chris has both hands lifted in surrender. “Cora, I’m not your enemy,” he says.

“Yes you are, you piece of shit, you betrayed my family, you got them all killed – ”

One look at Derek’s stricken face is all Stiles needs to confirm his theory.

“Cora, calm down,” Chris says, but Stiles can see his jaw tighten, see the way he’s putting in effort to control his wolf, not to shift while being threatened. Cora takes a few more steps forward and she waves the gun at him, finger tightening on the trigger. “Cora, don’t make me hurt you,” Chris says, and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice.

“Don’t touch my sister,” Derek snarls, and great, isn’t _that_ just what they need –

Stiles raises his voice and shouts, “Cora! It wasn’t Chris! It was Kate!”

That gets a reaction. Chris half-turns and blinks at him. Derek looks sick, putting one hand over his mouth. Cora just snarls, and Stiles pushes in between her and Chris.

“Cora,” he says quietly. “Put the gun away. It was Kate.” He looks at Derek, desperate, not wanting to say it in front of everybody but not knowing what besides the truth might calm Cora down. Derek stares back at him for a minute, then gives a tiny little nod. “Kate was Derek’s girlfriend. She got the way past security from him.”

Cora’s eyes go wide and she starts to lower the gun. She turns reluctantly to face her brother.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, his voice raw. “I didn’t know. I didn’t. She just – she just saw me go through the gates too many times. I didn’t realize she was watching me, I never even knew her last name. I – I’m sorry.”

“You – you son of a bitch,” Cora chokes out, and she turns and runs into the forest. Derek looks like he just got knifed in the gut.

Stiles starts after her, but then realizes all he’s going to do is get his head bitten off. Cora needs some time to get through this on her own, to realize that this wasn’t Derek’s fault. And he has other things to worry about. He turns back to Derek and blurts out, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell anyone, I just – ”

“It’s fine, Stiles.” Derek’s gone remote and distant. He turns and walks in the other direction.

Now Stiles is really at a loss, and he’s thinking about maybe just giving up for the day, when Chris’ hand lands on his shoulder. “We need to stop Derek from killing the omegas.”

“Derek isn’t killing the omegas,” Stiles says, blinking. “He was with me when one of them was killed. I thought it was you. It isn’t?”

Chris shakes his head.

“So if it’s not us . . . and it’s not you . . .” Stiles stares at him for a long minute. “Then who the hell is it?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_then_

 

Peter walked aimlessly for a while through the preserve, not really paying attention to where he was going. It was a crisp spring morning with a blue sky. He could smell chimney smoke somewhere nearby. A beautiful day, really, which was jarring in its incongruity. He had nowhere to go. He knew he couldn’t go back to the house, which would still be swarming with police.

He was moving as if he were in a fog, and that, he knew, was a problem. Here he was, in huge amounts of danger, just wandering around the forest. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been meant to die in that attack. The fact that he hadn’t been at the house was the only thing that had saved him. But it wouldn’t take long for the people behind it to realize that he had survived and start looking for him.

He needed time, and space, and somewhere that he could get something to eat. It was almost noon now, and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He didn’t want to go anywhere that he could be recognized or remembered later, which left his usual haunts out. But there were plenty of fast food restaurants in town.

Half an hour later, he was settled down in one of his safehouses with a bucket of fried chicken that he had zero interest in eating. He sat cross-legged on the bed and closed his eyes.

Kayla had taught him how to meditate, and it was one of the few things he felt he had ever gotten out of her yoga obsession. Meditation was about focus, and Peter was good at focusing. He needed to compartmentalize now, needed to deal with what had happened in as little time as possible so he could make sure that he was safe.

First things first: his family was dead.

Talia, warm, generous Talia, mother of three children, ace with any distance weapon invented, his sister, was gone. He would never see her again, never hear her laugh, never be drawn into her embrace. Jocelyn, the sharpest lawyer he had ever known, was dead. She had chosen to stay with the family even though she wasn’t a hunter, because she loved them, and that choice had killed her. Andrew, his uncle and the lone survivor of the previous generation, chock full of alcohol and liver problems and good advice, was dead. His cousin Sean, with all his paranoia and self-righteousness and disgusting health food, was dead. Sean’s wife Kayla and her yoga and calming presence, was dead. Michael, their son, taller than either of them, handy with a shotgun and a huge fan of horror movies, was dead.

They were all dead. All of them. Gone from his life in one single night.

He took the grief that came with that, visualized a box, and packed it away.

Next came the rage.

Anger was fine, but this hot anger, this burning white fury, was not what he needed. Hot anger was what caused recklessness and mistakes, it was what had consumed him after his father’s death. He needed his anger to be cold. He was older now, smarter, _better_. If he was going to survive – and he would be damned if he did not survive long enough to have his revenge – he needed the cold anger of the vendetta. That, he could embrace.

Once that was put away, he brought the guilt up to the surface, and for the first time, tears stung his eyes. He should have been there. Logically, _rationally_ , he knew it wouldn’t have made any difference. He would have been killed along with the rest of them. But there was still that part of him, would always be that part of him, that thought he might have noticed just a few seconds sooner, that he might have gotten a shot off just a few seconds quicker, that he might have been able to save somebody, anybody. But he hadn’t been there. Because of Chris. Because of a _werewolf_.

He put the guilt away.

And then there was Chris.

All the complex feelings of love, if it was love, and longing, of bitter inferiority and the sting of repeated rejection. He had never been what Chris wanted out of life. He had tried for years to ignore that fact, but last night had made it clear where Chris’ priorities lay. With his wife and daughter. As they should.

Peter wondered if he had managed to fool himself as he fooled everybody else, into thinking that he didn’t care. Thinking that he was happy with the way things were with Chris. Chris’ devotion and duty might be with Victoria and Allison, but his _passion_ had always been with Peter. That was enough, Peter had thought. And maybe it had been, until today.

With his wit and his charm, he could have seduced almost anyone he had ever met. Chris had always been the person who was immune to that. The person who had understood him, resisted his charms, but then liked him anyway. If he had ever chosen Peter, Peter would have known it was because _he_ wanted it, not because Peter had convinced him that he had.

And Chris had made his choice. It was a choice that should have come as absolutely no surprise, yet it was. He knew that Chris didn’t see it that way. That Chris had picked him up at the hospital that morning because he cared for him, because he still tried desperately to straddle the line, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could have both.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Not after last night. Peter knew he would never look at Chris again without seeing Talia dead on the floor. Without feeling Jocelyn shudder in his arms as her last breath left her. Even though there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to throw himself into Chris’ arms right now and ask the werewolf to shield him from the world. He couldn’t have that before, and he certainly couldn’t have it now.

He wrapped it all up, put a double layer of tape on the box, and visualized himself putting it on a high-up shelf, out of reach. Out of sight, out of mind.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he felt empty. Hollowed out. That was good. Empty was good. It left room inside him for other things, like actual thought and strategy.

The smell of the food hit him, and he realized he was ravenous. Hours had passed while he had been in his trance-like state. He tore into the food, and for a while, it consumed his attention. Then he took a shower. The shower was always a good place to think.

It was highly unlikely that Chris had betrayed him. The streak of honor that his grandmother had embedded in him had been a pain in the ass Peter’s entire life, and it wasn’t going to go anywhere in a hurry. No, much more likely that someone had observed him. He had come and gone frequently enough in the last few months since his grandmother’s death that it would have been relatively easy to watch him get past the defenses enough times to figure out how to do them.

As far as Peter knew, Kate was the only one in the Argent family who knew about their relationship. But he was also fairly sure that Kate herself wouldn’t have dared follow Chris around. He was much too wary of her, always on the lookout for her traps after their childhood together. If Kate was involved in this, it was through a third party.

He heard his cell phone ringing out in the rest of the apartment, and let it go through to voice mail as he finished scrubbing the last of the blood off of his skin. He watched it go down the drain a little abstractly. The last of his family. But he didn’t really feel much about it. All that had been put away.

He got out of the shower and got dressed. The safehouse had a few changes of clothes, some books, a spare laptop charger, and some non-perishable food. Plenty serviceable for a couple weeks. Then he checked his phone. He had one message and pulled it up.

“Hey, Peter, it’s Tom,” the deputy’s voice said. “I just wanted to let you know how things got settled with the kids. Cora’s gonna stay with me for a while, and Melissa’s taking Derek. Laura, you know, she kept trying to say she’d get a job and not go to college, but . . . nobody really wanted that. We talked her out of it. She’s going to stay at Alan Deaton’s for now. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure they all get enough time together. Once you’ve got your, uh, once you’ve made whatever arrangements you need to make, give me a call and we’ll get the rest of it straightened out.”

Peter tucked his phone away but allowed himself a sigh of relief. He was leaving the children in good hands. He could only hope that they weren’t targets. Cora would be safe enough with the sheriff, and Deaton’s place was probably safer than any of his own. Melissa, well. To be fair, Peter wouldn’t exactly want to piss her off.

By this point, Peter judged that it was late enough in the day that he could venture back to the house. When he got there, he was satisfied to find that it was empty. There were no police cars anywhere. The house was still practically wrapped in caution tape, but they hadn’t left anyone standing guard. The front and back door were sealed with official crime scene notices.

That didn’t bother Peter. He fully expected the police investigation to go nowhere, and frankly he didn’t want it to. Whoever had done this was going to die by his hand. Police would only get in the way. So he pulled out a knife and cut through the notice, then went into the house.

The bodies were gone, of course, but everything else was basically the same. He could see some smudges where doorknobs or railings had been dusted down for prints, before someone had come along and declared that it had been an animal attack. He wondered who that had been, considered putting him or her on the list of targets.

There were plenty of good cops in the department, cops like Tom who would look at this and see all the inconsistencies, but without a better explanation, they probably wouldn’t kick up much of a fuss. Again, that suited Peter just fine.

He was at the house for several hours. He had claw marks to measure the length and depth of, broken furniture to photograph, room after room of evidence to survey and carefully catalogue. He had the security camera at the front gate to look for (gone) and the keypad on the inner gate to dust for prints (none). At some point he would want to get copies of the official police photographs, particularly of the bodies, since he couldn’t look at them himself. At least, not anymore. He did have his own memories to go back to, as hazy as they were.

After some time, he decided he had underestimated the time that the children had been in the closet. Jocelyn had been the last to be killed, almost certainly, and given where she was and the injuries she had sustained, Peter decided that she probably hid during the attack. She must not have been able to get to the panic room, so she had hidden behind the loveseat, pressed up against the wall. It was pulled out a few inches, and he could see marks where they had dragged her out, over the top of it. Then they had disemboweled her and left her on the floor.

The reason he decided that was because of Andrew. His injuries were less severe than hers, but he had bled out by the time Peter had gotten home, whereas Jocelyn hadn’t. So the kids had probably been in the panic room for as much as an hour before he got home, while the werewolves searched the house for any leftover Hales. Looking, in all likelihood, for him.

Given the evidence, he thought as many as ten or twelve werewolves had been part of the attack. And although there hadn’t been any extra bodies when he got there, he doubted they had all survived. Most of them, if they died, would have died at the house. But Talia’s crossbow was on the floor, and he knew that she tipped her bolts in wolfsbane. A slow, agonizing death, if proper measures weren’t taken.

A smart man would put his companion out of their misery and dispose of the body, but Peter knew that werewolves didn’t think that way. Every individual added to the strength of the pack. One of the few things that he actually admired about werewolves was their ‘leave no man behind’ attitude. Not that he emulated it. It was admirable, but stupid.

Which meant that they would need to seek help for their dying brother.

Peter pulled out his phone as he left the house, and dialed Deaton’s cell phone. He picked up on the second ring. “Alan, it’s Peter,” he said, and then kept talking before Deaton could offer any sort of sympathies. “Where are the werewolves going for healers these days? Since I doubt they would bring one to you after what happened.”

Deaton’s voice was quiet, a little cautious. “Do I want to know what you’re up to, Peter?”

“You know exactly what I’m up to. Either answer the question or don’t.”

There was a pause, a moment of hesitation, but it wasn’t very long. “There’s a tattoo parlor on eighth street. The man who runs it is sort of a shaman. He knows the traditional remedies and he’s very receptive to keeping his mouth shut in exchange for large sums of cash. That’s where they would take anyone who was wounded last night.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, and hung up before Deaton could say anything else.

He drove downtown and parked a few doors down from the tattoo parlor, where he could watch it. Breaking in, reviewing the security footage, persuading the shaman to talk – all of those were possibilities. But he suspected that he wouldn’t need to go that far. The full moon was only a few days away, the wolves would be restless. They wouldn’t want to stay pinned down. Once his treatment was complete – extraction of wolfsbane took about twenty-four hours if the patient survived it – they would leave. He was content to wait.

It paid off. Around one o’clock in the morning, a side door opened and two men came out of the alley. One was clearly supporting the other, who was leaning on him heavily. Peter took out his camera and snapped a few photographs. He didn’t recognize either of them, which was surprising. He knew every member of the Argent pack.

They got into an old yellow pick-up truck, which he also took a few pictures of. Then they pulled onto the street. It was too late at night for him to follow with any amount of subterfuge; the streets were basically empty. It wasn’t a skill he had much practice at, either. He pulled out once they had turned the corner and followed at a safe distance for a few blocks, but lost them before he even got out of downtown.

It didn’t bother him. He had their faces, and if need be he could always go back to the tattoo parlor and shake down the shaman. In the meantime, he had plenty of contacts who could help. He settled down near an all-night coffee shop with free wi-fi and pulled out his laptop.

Unsurprisingly, his e-mail inbox was full to bursting. News traveled fast in the supernatural world. In the twenty-four hours since the murder of the Hale family, almost every hunter he had ever worked with had sent a message of condolences. About half of them had offers to help if he needed it. He gathered up the e-mail addresses of those people and forwarded the pictures of both the werewolves and their car. Then he drove back to his safe house. It was late, and he needed sleep.

The doctors at the emergency room had tried to give him a prescription for some sleeping pills, but he had refused. Things were dangerous enough, and in any case, he hadn’t touched any sort of drugs since he had stopped taking speed after Patrick’s death. He took another hot shower, meditated for half an hour, and then went to sleep.

By the time the sun rose, he had two replies to his e-mails. Both of them identified the werewolves as omegas, drifters, hired muscle. That made some sense to Peter. The Argents wouldn’t have wanted to risk their entire pack on the Hale family. Better to recruit some cannon fodder to soak up the worst that the Hales could do.

He needed to track it back to Gerard. Not out of any sense of moral responsibility – Gerard deserved execution for any number of things by this point, but they had held off on doing so lest they destroy the fragile peace – but because he wanted to be sure he had found all the responsible parties. Everyone who had helped murder his family would die. He didn’t want a single one of them to escape. And that meant being thorough.

The next several days passed in the same way. He reviewed evidence, finagled a copy of the police report and the photographs. Nothing he ever wanted to see again, but necessary nonetheless. He compared those reports to werewolf attacks in the past, researched to find out who the omegas typically dealt with. He called each of the three children every day, just to have a few words with them and reassure them that he was all right. Tom seemed relieved to hear from him, as if he were afraid that Peter had planned to vanish off the face of the earth.

Three days later, when he had uncovered seven omegas involved and all but confirmed the involvement of the Argent pack, he got back into his car around ten PM. He had left it parked on the side of the old country road while he broke into the home of one of the omegas while they were at their night-shift job. He hadn’t found much there, but he had high hopes for the financial information he had jotted down. He was sure that the omegas had been paid for their work. All he needed to do was find out where the money had come from.

He yawned as he put his seat belt on and turned the key in the ignition. He put his foot on the brake.

Underneath his foot, he heard a soft _crunch_.

Flames erupted all around him, and he scrambled to get his seat belt off and get out of the car. The driver’s side door wouldn’t open. At first he thought he had locked it, but a quick check revealed that wasn’t true. He set his shoulder against it and applied all his strength. It creaked and groaned but wouldn’t yield. He couldn’t see through the smoke and flames enough to tell if someone was on the outside, holding it shut.

He shoved at it frantically for a long moment, feeling the flames lick at his skin, burn through his clothes. He didn’t know if he was screaming or not; he thought he might be. Rational thought reasserted itself after far too long and he scrambled into the back seat, further from the fire. That door wouldn’t open either, but he was able to kick one of the windows out and squirm to freedom. The chilly night air hit him like a kick to every exposed nerve ending. He whimpered and collapsed on the road, rolling over and over in an effort to put out the flames.

Distantly, he heard the screech of tires, the opening of a car door, a female voice saying, “Holy shit, Shelley, call 911!”

It was the last thing he was aware of for a very long time.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris tried to call Peter twice the day after picking him up from the hospital and got no answer either time. It didn’t surprise him. Peter had been fairly clear about the fact that he didn’t want Chris’ help. But Chris offered anyway. He figured that there had to be something he could do, even if it was only give Peter a familiar face and a willing pair of arms at the end of each day.

Meanwhile, he watched his father do damage control. He knew that the Hales had friends and allies, that Peter wasn’t the only threat. He was so convincing that Chris really doubted that his father was responsible. More than anything else, he seemed . . . shaken. As if it had happened before he was prepared for it.

Chris accepted Gerard’s explanation of ‘if I were going to do it, I wouldn’t have done it so soon’. His father was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. He knew that Mirelle’s death was suspicious, and he knew that the Hales had been investigating it. To kill them now would have been stupid. But what if he had to? What if they had found something out about Mirielle, about her death?

His father set up a perimeter watch and made sure that nobody was out after moonrise, and Kate laughed at him and called him paranoid because hunters wouldn’t kill without proof, so they were safe, they were fine. And if they heard something about an omega or two in town who went missing, they had probably just left under their own steam, given the current climate. Nothing to worry about.

Chris was staring out his window, trying not to think about it, when there was a knock on his front door. He looked through the peephole and saw Gerard standing on his doorstep, so he swung the door open. “Chris,” his father said. He sounded tired. “We need to talk.”

“What is it?” Chris asked, standing back to let him in.

Gerard looked around the front hallway. “Where are Victoria and Allison?”

“In bed already,” Chris said, since he certainly wasn’t about to admit that he had packed them off days ago. “Dad, what is it?”

“I know that Peter Hale was your friend,” Gerard said gravely. “And so I’m sorry, Chris. I really am. But he came after me. Ambushed me on my way home from meeting with Helena. I had to protect myself.”

Chris was standing very still, like if he pretended he hadn’t heard, it wouldn’t be true. “Peter came after you?” he said, his voice steady, somehow.

“I know that he probably thinks I’m responsible for what happened to his family,” Gerard said.

Chris shook his head. “Peter wouldn’t have moved against you without proof.”

Gerard’s mouth tightened. “Not everyone is as honorable as you, Chris. He – ”

“Honor my ass,” Chris spat out. “He would have wanted proof because if he killed the wrong person, the right person would escape his vengeance. And he wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t have – wouldn’t have – ” His voice cracked. “He wouldn’t have,” he said again.

“I had to defend myself, son,” Gerard said again. “I won’t apologize for it. But I wanted you to hear it straight from me.”

Chris opened his mouth to say something else, say something about how it couldn’t be true. That Peter would have planned better than that. That Peter didn’t _lose_. That Gerard had to be lying about something. Maybe he had hunted Peter down. Maybe the ambush had been the other way around. Maybe he had hired more thugs to take him out.

Then he realized it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all, because Peter was dead.

And that –

That meant nothing mattered. Not anymore.

Chris didn’t care what had happened. He didn’t care if Gerard had attacked Peter or vice versa. He didn’t care if Peter had had proof of Gerard’s wrongdoing. He didn’t care if Gerard had ordered the Hale family murdered, or if Gerard had murdered his mother and stolen the power that was his by rights. He didn’t care about any of it, because Peter was dead, and none of it mattered anymore.

When Gerard saw that he wasn’t going to say anything else, he just gave a little nod and turned towards the door.

Chris’ throat and tongue loosened up. “Dad,” he said, and Gerard half-turned. “I’m leaving. I got a job up in Wyoming.”

Gerard studied him for a minute, then nodded and said, “You do what you have to do, son.”

He turned and left the house, closing the door behind him.

Chris stood there for a long minute, then picked up his house keys as if he were in a dream, and headed for the car. He locked up the house, then wondered why he had bothered. He wouldn’t be back. They would probably give it to somebody else. Most of their things had already been moved, certainly anything they cared about.

Since it would be the middle of the night by the time he reached the hotel, he called Victoria to let her know that he was on his way.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, almost immediately.

“Peter’s dead,” Chris said through increasingly numb lips.

Victoria let out a breath. “Chris, I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Chris said, and hung up. He didn’t remember much of the drive later. He reached the hotel at about two o’clock in the morning. Victoria opened the room’s door and let him in, pulled him into an embrace. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Chris hadn’t slept, but he said he was okay to drive. They tried to make the trip fun for Allison. Poor Allison, who didn’t really understand. Chris wondered if he would ever be able to tell her.

Everything got very busy. He had no practical experience with his new job, but it was mostly business and accounting, things he was familiar with. He met with the ranch’s previous manager, who was retiring, and spent a day learning most of the ropes. “E-mail me if you need anything,” the man said, shaking Chris’ hand.

It wasn’t until three days later that Chris found himself sitting on the edge of a vast field, staring out at it and feeling the emptiness all the way down to his bones.

This was his life now. He had Victoria and Allison, and he loved and cherished his daughter and would try to do right by her. But he knew that this was all there would be. He would grow old and die up here in seclusion. Regardless of whether or not Gerard had lifted a finger against the Hales, he had won his fight against Chris and then some.

“Daddy, why are you crying?” Allison asked, coming up behind him, and Chris hastily wiped his cheeks. “Are you homesick?” she added.

“Yeah, baby,” he said. “I guess I am.”

“I miss home, too,” Allison said. “I miss Aunt Kate. Mom said, when I’m feeling lonely, I should write her a letter. If you miss someone at home, why don’t you write them a letter?”

Chris started to tell her that he couldn’t, but didn’t want to explain that. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Maybe I’ll do that.” How would that letter go? Dear Peter. I’m sorry. I love you. I’ve always loved you but I never had the courage to tell you.

“Do you want to play a game?” Allison asked, springing back to her feet.

“Sure,” Chris said.

She darted a few feet away. “Catch me if you can!” she said, and ran out into the field.

 _Catch me if you can, Christopher_ , Peter’s voice said back to him, and Chris could almost see his lover’s back, as he ran through the woods in the preserve.

“I will,” he said quietly, knowing that Allison was out of earshot. “I will catch you someday, Peter. That’s a promise.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_now_

 

“I just don’t _get_ it,” Stiles is still ranting, drawing Chris out of his thoughts. “I’m out of fucking suspects at this point and I keep coming back to you, to the fact that you came back to town and it’s like someone just woke up and said ‘oh hey, I better start killing a bunch of omegas that were involved in the Hale family murder’!”

Chris blinks at him.

Says, concisely, “Son of a _bitch_.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited about this chapter~

 

_It’s like someone just woke up and started killing omegas._

Chris’ thoughts are a tangled mess as he jogs back to his car. He’s left Stiles standing there in the forest going, “What? What did I say?!” because he sure as hell wasn’t about to explain things to the teenager. If he’s right, he’ll have to think about how to handle this long term, but now, more than anything, he needs to know whether or not he’s right.

It feels right. It feels like the last puzzle piece fitting right in. Every bit of evidence – the skillful murders, the gaps in timing, the omegas that had been targeted – it all points back to the fact that Peter Hale was the one pulling the metaphorical trigger. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the fact that he is, in theory, catatonic.

By the time Chris gets to the nursing home, he’s worked himself up into a frothing rage. The idea that Peter has been awake and ignoring him during all the times he had come to visit is beyond humiliating. He brushes past the sign-in for visitors and heads for Peter’s room. As usual, he’s sitting in the chair by the window, staring outside.

“I know you can hear me, you son of a bitch,” Chris greets him. “So you’d better open your mouth and start talking.”

This gets no response, but then again he hadn’t really expected it to. Peter’s too stubborn for that; he always has been.

“Don’t make me prove it,” Chris says. “Do you think I don’t know how to hurt someone? I will reach down your pants and squeeze your balls until you cry uncle.”

“Kinky,” Peter says, without missing a beat.

Chris nearly chokes. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He winds up on his knees in front of Peter, burying his face in Peter’s lap. Peter, alive, talking, _Peter_. He hears the hunter let out a little sigh and then abruptly remembers that he’s pissed off. He pulls away and angrily draws a hand over his eyes. “You fucking faker,” he says. “All this time. Do you have any idea what that’s been like for the kids?”

Peter snarls at him. “It wasn’t this whole time. I only started to wake up this past summer, not that it’s any of your fucking business. I figured I would do what I needed to do and then come out of it officially.”

“How do you figure it wasn’t my business?” Chris growls back. “Did you miss all the times I came in here and talked to your God damned unconscious face, thinking you weren’t listening?”

“It wasn’t your business because _you left me_!” Peter shouts. Chris flinches backwards. “I was in pain you can’t even comprehend, I had just lost my sisters, my entire family, and you – you just waltzed off into the sunset because your daughter was safe and _that_ was what mattered to you, you didn’t give a single God damn about me – ”

“I thought you were dead,” Chris says, and Peter stops because he sees the agony on Chris’ face. “My father told me you were dead. I thought – I thought I had lost you forever and that fucking _killed_ me. Yes, I ran away. I’m not fucking proud of it, okay? But I never realized I was leaving you behind. Not until I came back here for Allison’s sake and I asked Tom about visiting your grave.”

Peter let out a breath. He rubs a hand over his face and says quietly, “All right. We – we should talk about this later. Once we’ve both – calmed down a little.”

Chris stands up. “You need to come with me. You’re not safe here.”

“And I’ll be safer with you?” Peter asks skeptically.

“God damn it, Peter,” Chris says. “If I figured out you were the one behind this, my father is going to figure it out eventually.”

“Why do you think I’m here under a fake name?” Peter asks. “This is the safest place for me. That ‘faking’, as you put it, is my shield against the world.”

“It won’t protect you forever.”

“Maybe not. But it’ll have to protect me for long enough.”

Chris shakes his head. “But you still don’t know who was behind it, do you? You can’t connect it back to Gerard no matter how hard you try and that’s killing you. Because you have a code, too, and you won’t kill Gerard until you’re sure. Do you know why you can’t connect it back to him?”

“Don’t say it,” Peter says.

“Because it wasn’t him,” Chris says. “He would have done it, but he would have waited.” He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the fury written all over Peter’s face. “Come with me. I’ve got a safehouse prepared. I can _help_ you, Peter.”

“Give me one God damned reason why I should accept anything from you,” Peter says.

“Because I love you,” Chris says.

Peter flinches as if Chris had slapped him. “You have the fucking balls to say that to me _now_? You’re about twenty God damned years late, Christopher.”

“I know that,” Chris says. He’s suddenly just – tired. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Kate killed your family, Peter. She got the way past security from Derek. She – ” It takes effort to force the words out of his throat. “She seduced him, and manipulated him, and he let her walk him home after their trysts enough times that she figured it out from watching him do it.”

Peter has gone very still.

“Don’t – don’t be angry at him,” Chris says. “You know the way Kate can be. The way she can – ”

“You think I’m angry at my nephew?” Peter hisses. “You think I blame this on him? That I would be angry at him because your _sister_ sexually manipulated a _child_? Get out, Chris, get the fuck out right now or I will kill you, I swear to God – ”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re damned right,” Peter retorts.

He’s silent for a minute. Chris tries again. “Peter,” he says, “you’re not safe here. Come with me.”

“I can take care of myself,” Peter says.

“I know,” Chris says. “But please let me take care of you. You don’t have to be alone anymore. I’m here. I’m late but I’m _here_ , God damn it.”

Peter’s face crumbles slowly. “All right,” he says quietly.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles limps back into the McCall house and goes to find an ice pack for his ankle. He’s startled to see Derek sitting in the kitchen. “Oh, I, uh,” he stammers idiotically. “Didn’t think you’d be here. I mean, I thought you’d gone somewhere else. _Obviously_. I’ll shut up now.”

Derek just gives him a tired look. “I texted Cora, but she didn’t answer.”

“She just – don’t be too hard on her, okay?” Stiles says. “I know she shouldn’t have called you that or run off, but she – she’s upset.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says again.

“It’s _not_ fine,” Stiles says. “She shouldn’t have said that to you. She shouldn’t have treated you like this is your fault.”

Derek frowns and looks up. “It is my fault.”

“What? No, it isn’t,” Stiles says. He slumps into a chair and holds the ice pack to his ankle.

Now Derek’s frown deepens. “You’re hurt.”

“I just twisted my ankle like the stupid klutz I am. It’s not a big – ” Stiles manages and then Derek has gotten out of his chair and is _picking him up_ like he’s some sort of doll who weighs nothing and that is _definitely_ going in the spank bank. He gets that far in his train of thought before remembering the amazing arms belong to the victim of sexual abuse and then mentally flogs himself. His brain is practically tripping over itself as Derek places him on the sofa, puts a few pillows underneath his ankle, and then tucks the ice pack up against it.

Then Derek goes and sinks down into the arm chair. He broods for a few minutes, watching Stiles nervously chew on his lower lip. “How’d you know?” he finally asks.

“Just – little things. Kate yesterday said something that made me – think about it. And I just – it’s _not_ your fault, Derek. I watched her manipulate Chris into thinking it was _his_ fault. It took her like twenty seconds and he’s old enough to know her tricks. She’s obviously really good at what she does.”

Derek shakes his head. “You don’t understand because you didn’t know me back then. Because you don’t know what I was like. I was a cocky, rebellious little shithead, and it got my family killed. We had all these rules about safety – about never going out alone, about curfew, about never bringing anyone to the house – and they drove me crazy. Who needed all those rules? So I broke them. And now my family’s dead.”

“Dude, it’s not like you gave her the code and step-by-step instructions,” Stiles says. “You were a kid, and yeah, kids do stupid shit. But she _knew_ that, that’s why she went after you. And I’m sure she spent a hell of a lot of time convincing you that she was harmless, too. Like, yeah, you were maybe a little rebellious, so that’s how she played you. If you’d been shy, she just would’ve played you a different way.

“If she beat you in a footrace, that wouldn’t be your fault, right?” Stiles continues, seeing the dubious expression on Derek’s face. “I mean, it’s not your fault that as a werewolf, she’s physically stronger and faster than you. So it can’t really be your fault that, when you were fifteen, she was smarter than you. I mean, if only by virtue of experience.” Stiles huffs out a breath. “Look, I, I know that you probably don’t believe me, that even if you know I’m right, you can’t _feel_ it. So I just want you to know that even if you don’t believe it wasn’t your fault, _I_ believe that. I, I guess it’s not that much. I just . . . wanted you to know that.”

Derek glances up from where he’s been studying his hands, and then murmurs, “Thanks.”

Stiles let his head sink back onto the arm of the sofa. “Man,” he says, “I pictured this going sooooo differently. I mean, I was all psyched to try to solve it, right? It never even occurred to me that maybe you already knew. Or that I was poking my nose into stuff that was none of my business.”

“Yeah, but . . . that’s just the way you are.” Derek’s lip twitch into what almost passes for a smile. “I mean, you’re . . . going to be a really good cop someday, Stiles.”

There it is, the validation that he had been craving, and Stiles flushes a brilliant pink and manages to stammer out a disclaimer. “No, don’t make me feel good about this, I was a total jerk,” he says.

Derek shrugs. “You weren’t a jerk. You had no way of knowing.” He tilts his head to one side and looks at Stiles curiously. “But why were you so bent on solving it, anyway? You can’t have known it had anything to do with what was going on now, not at first, anyway.”

“Oh, geez . . . you really don’t know?” Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I don’t really think this is a good time to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Derek asks, frowning. “Just spit it out.”

“I kind of, um, I wanted to impress you,” Stiles blurts out. “Because I like you. A lot. I mean. I know I’m just your kid brother’s annoying friend, but I pretty much think you’re amazing and I really wasn’t going to say anything, especially not given what happened with Kate, you probably don’t have any interest in me at all.”

Derek looks kind of like Stiles hit him in the face with a board. “You . . . like me?” he asks.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be a thing,” Stiles says nervously. “I mean, you can pretend I never said anything, I’d be a-okay with that plan. I think we should institute it immediately, in fact – ”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek tells him.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know.”

The older boy just groans. “Do you have _any_ idea – any idea at all – how much I’ve hated myself for the past two years every time I looked at you? Thinking that you were just a kid, that I was some kind of horrible pervert?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Wait. What?”

“I came back from Africa and you were all grown up – ”

“I was all grown up?” Stiles asks incredulously. “You had stubble! And muscles! You looked like some sort of bronzed god!”

“Yeah, well, you’d gotten that ridiculous mop of hair cut short so I could actually see your face for the first time in years,” Derek retorts, “and ridiculously long fingers and, God, the most kissable lips, but you were fifteen and – and that’s how old I was when Kate – ”

“Wait, stop!” Stiles says. “Okay. Go back. We’re going to go back and have this conversation again, and this time we’re going to pretend that Kate doesn’t exist. I’m erasing her from the face of the earth for the purpose of the next five minutes.” He licks his lips nervously and says, “I like you. A lot.”

Derek looks up at him through his lashes in a way that drives Stiles insane. “I . . . like you, too.”

“Do you want to, um, go out with me?” Stiles asks in a rush. “I want to go get ice cream with you, and go for a walk and hold hands. That’s it. That’s all I want to do. It’s great that you think my lips look kissable and I’m so, so down for finding out more about that, but I think maybe we should take it slow for like, umpty-zillion reasons, not least of all being that my dad is the sheriff and stuff.”

In a voice that’s almost solemn, Derek says, “I’d like to go get ice cream with you. That would be nice.”

Stiles swallows and tries to restrain himself from leaping around the room like a fool. “Look, um. I know that you’re all messed up. And that’s okay. It’s not the kind of thing that can be fixed overnight, you know? I just want to be there for you. And we can go out for ice cream and hold hands and maybe get a cheeseburger or go see a movie or – I just want to spend time with you. And if that leads to kissing and stuff that’s good, I’d be really happy, but if you don’t want it to, that’s okay, too. I mean, we can wait until I’m eighteen. If that would make you feel better. Hell, if you want we can get permission from my dad first although he’d probably rather spork himself in the eye than know about my sex life and – are you laughing? Derek! You’re laughing!”

He is, little chuckles that shake his shoulders as he presses one hand against his mouth. “You’re _ridiculous_ ,” he says.

“I’m really, really glad that you like that about me,” Stiles says, “’cause I don’t think it’s something I can change.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “So, uh. Ice cream? Tomorrow? Pick me up at seven? Or we could just go out after dinner, I guess tomorrow’s Friday so we’re having dinner together anyway.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

This being settled, Stiles starts to get to his feet. He wants to run around screaming, he’s so full of awe and joy. But then Derek reaches out and pushes him back onto the pillows.

Stiles thinks he’s going to make some comment about his ankle, but instead Derek says, “Stay with me.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh, yeah, sure. Do you want to watch some TV? That’d be good, I’ll put on a movie or something – ” He grabs the remote and starts flipping channels until he finds something that looks vaguely tolerable. Then he sits up hesitantly, swinging his leg over so he can rest it on the coffee table and make room for Derek. He half expects that Derek won’t take it, but the older man sits down next to him, then leans over and curls up with his head in Stiles’ lap.

“Stay with me,” he says again, more quietly.

“Always,” Stiles says, and he knows it’s a stupid promise to make, he’s only sixteen, but he means it, more than words could say.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris takes a few minutes to study Peter and think about how they’re going to handle a few things. At least he’s prepared for this; it could be a lot harder. “Look, I have to – talk to your doctor, okay? I had talked to him about taking you home, he thinks I’m your brother – ”

“I know,” Peter says.

Chris’ jaw sets in a scowl. “Right. Because you’ve been listening. I forgot.”

“Don’t be pissed at me,” Peter says. “You don’t have any God damned right. I didn’t trust _anyone_. Not Tom, not you, not even my own niece and nephew. I just want to get this done.”

“Fine,” Chris says. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He goes out to the nurse station and asks if the doctor is anywhere nearby. He’s doing his afternoon rounds, she says, and he can stop and see them when he’s done. It’ll be about half an hour. Chris thanks her and goes back to Peter’s room. He sits down on the edge of the bed and studies Peter for a long time. Peter indulges this, although he quirks an eyebrow at Chris after the first minute. “Shut up,” Chris says, even though Peter hasn’t said anything. “I’m basking.”

“You?” Peter sounds amused. “I didn’t know you knew the meaning of the word.”

“You’re alive,” Chris says. “Do you have any idea what that means to me?”

“No,” Peter says, blunt and sharp and a little angry.

Chris lets it slide. He doesn’t blame Peter for being angry at him, for thinking that Chris’ declaration of love is years too late. “When did you wake up? I mean, what’s the first thing you remember?”

Peter’s silent so long that Chris starts to think he won’t answer. “Your mouth,” he finally says. “I don’t think it really sank in at first. But I woke up feeling like you had been here, for the first time in . . . a long time. I could smell your cologne. I stayed quiet, stayed inside my own head, while I put everything back together. That made me realize the danger I was in, so I didn’t say anything even after I could.”

Chris sits back. “Holy shit,” he says. “I _actually_ woke you up with a magic kiss.”

“So you did,” Peter says, smiling despite himself. “But after that . . . it was a lot of long, empty days. The kids come in, of course. Derek comes in twice a week and reads to me. Laura sends a letter once a week no matter where she is, and one of the aides reads it to me. That’s . . . nice. I learned, bit by bit, about the situation in the outside world. And I worked. At night, while no one was here. I would do push-ups and jumping jacks and got myself back into shape.”

“So when I came back, were you fully awake by then?” Chris asks.

Peter nods. “Yes, I was here for your first conversation with the doctor about taking me home. What does Victoria think about that, by the way?”

“She doesn’t know,” Chris says, and Peter arches an eyebrow at him again. Quietly, Chris says, “Peter. I kept your secrets for you. I always have. It didn’t seem safe for anyone to know you were alive, so I didn’t say anything, to anyone. I even went out of my way to tell my father that I was still pissed at him for killing you, to make sure he thought you were dead.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re going through proper channels instead of just walking out of the nursing home with me,” Peter says, and Chris nods. “Fair enough. But now that I know who’s behind this, it won’t be much longer.”

Chris opens his mouth to say something about Kate, about how she’s an alpha and killing her won’t be that easy, but then there’s a brief knock and the doctor comes in. He’s somewhat impressed by Peter’s instant transition back into mindless vegetable. He shakes Dr. Namjoshi’s hand and has a long discussion with him about the care Peter needs, and says he just wants to do this as a trial for now, take Peter home for, say, a week and see how everyone handles it. They’ll keep paying for his room at Greenbriar Terrace in the meantime. Namjoshi heartily commends this plan of taking things slowly.

About an hour later, Chris has a box of Peter’s things and he’s wheeling Peter out of the nursing home. One of the aides came in and helped him get Peter dressed in sweatpants and a sweater. Peter was amazingly limp and pliant during all this; it caused Chris major cognitive dissonance, dressing his former lover like an oversized ragdoll. But they got it done.

“Stay in touch,” Dr. Namjoshi says, as they leave the facility. The aide helps him get Peter into the front seat of the car, and folds up the wheelchair to put into the back.

They’re almost a mile away from the facility when Peter speaks again. “Where are we going?”

“I told you, I have a safehouse,” Chris says. “It’s an apartment on State street.”

“All right. Food? I don’t know if you’ve ever had what they serve in nursing homes, but it isn’t exactly five star cuisine.”

“We can order some takeout,” Chris says, and Peter nods, then resumes staring out the window. “Don’t,” Chris says, and Peter glances at him. “Don’t just – stare. I’m sick of watching you stare at nothing. At least – at least look at me like you’re alive.”

“You know, sometimes I feel like I’m not,” Peter says. “I feel like I actually died back then, and I’m just . . . some ghost of revenge and I’ll evaporate once this is over.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Chris says.

“I’m just saying. That’s how I feel.”

“Well, you’d better not fucking evaporate,” Chris says. “I just got you back. I’m not going to lose you again. You got that, Hale?”

Peter sighs. “There’s no happy ending for us in this,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t know any such God damned thing,” Chris growls at him, and Peter just sighs again and says nothing. This time, Chris doesn’t press him for further conversation. He drives the rest of the way in silence. The apartment building has underground parking, and Peter nods in approval that the car won’t be left exposed for anyone driving past to see that Chris is there. He grabs his box of things and they go upstairs.

Chris has spent a little time there over the past few months, but it’s still sterile and mostly empty. It came furnished, but the walls are bare, there are no books on the shelves. “I’ll order from Pho’s,” Chris says, taking out his phone.

“I think I’m just going to go to bed,” Peter says. “I’m tired.”

Chris grabs his wrist as he heads for the bedroom. “Stay with me,” he says.

“You’re not going to sleep now,” Peter says. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“No, I won’t,” Chris says. “But let me stay with you anyway.”

Peter looks at him for a long moment. “If you want,” he says, his voice carefully indifferent. He goes into the other room and lays down on the bed without taking off more than his shoes. That surprises Chris a little, because he’s used to Peter sleeping in the nude. But he doesn’t say anything about it. He kicks off his own shoes and lays down on the bed next to Peter.

He thinks back to that first time they had shared a bed, when Peter had curled up and rested his head on Chris’ shoulder without being asked. This time, Peter just lays next to him on his back, stiff and unfriendly, looking at the ceiling. Chris endures that for a few minutes before he decides that if Peter won’t touch him, he’ll just touch Peter. He rolls onto his side and nestles up against him, pressing his face into Peter’s throat and putting an arm over his stomach. Peter doesn’t react to that, either. Chris thinks he would almost prefer it if Peter pushed him away, but he just lies there, _allowing_ it. It hurts worse than a knife to the gut.

After another long minute of silence, Chris finally says, “Look, Peter . . .”

“Don’t,” Peter says. “I just don’t . . . want to talk right now. All right?”

“All right,” Chris says. He hesitates, then asks, “Do you want me to go?”

Peter sighs, then murmurs, “No. Don’t go.”

That’s good enough for Chris. He leans up and kisses Peter’s jaw, just underneath his ear. Peter lets out another sigh, but this one sounds a little more content. Then he closes his eyes, turning his head so his chin is pressed against Chris’ hair, and goes to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. =D

 

Chris is surprised to find that at some point, he must have actually dozed off. It’s evening when he wakes up, and he’s not sure what woke him until he reaches for Peter and finds the bed empty. A few moments later, he hears the water turn on in the bathroom. He stretches a little and, since no one is there to see him, takes a few minutes to roll around on the bed and indulge his wolf by getting Peter’s scent all over him. Then he gets up.

Peter comes out of the bathroom about twenty minutes later, just as the food Chris ordered is arriving. He’s dressed in flannel pants and a sweatshirt that were in his box of things. Chris remembers so many times that Peter just walked out of the bathroom naked in the old days. It’s jarring to see him so body shy, although Chris supposes he has very good reasons for it. Since his arrival back in Beacon Hills, he’s never even seen Peter in short sleeves, and he has no real idea of how bad the damage is. The scars on his face certainly paint a grim picture. He got a few glimpses while he was helping the nurse get Peter changed, but that was all.

“Food’s here,” Chris says, setting down the bag from Pho’s. “There’s soda and beer in the fridge.”

Peter nods. He goes into the kitchen and peers inside, then comes out with a can of Dr. Pepper. “You stocked this place up,” he says. “The drinks I like. The shampoo I use.” He takes a drink and studies Chris. “Why? You had no way of knowing I would be around to appreciate it.”

“Of course not,” Chris says. “But I hoped. I’m allowed to hope, aren’t I?”

Peter shrugs. But the cold, distant Peter can’t hold up against the smell of the food. “Oh, God, I’m starved,” he says, and digs in. “Six fucking years of mashed potatoes and peas, I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get yourself food while you were out and about,” Chris says, watching him shovel pho chín into his mouth.

“Didn’t want to take the risk,” Peter says. “I could have been recognized. And every minute I was gone from the nursing home was a minute someone could have come to check on me and realized I was gone. I had business to attend to.” He slurps up some noodles. “I knew which omegas had been involved, so it was just a matter of tracking them down.”

“And you made it look like animal attacks so my father would think the omegas were just fighting amongst themselves.”

“Along with anyone else who investigated, yes.” Peter takes a drink of his soda. “It worked for your family. To a certain extent, at least. Tom never believed it, apparently.” He starts eating again, and speaks with his mouth full. “It’ll be nice to be able to thank him, finally. I believe in paying off my debts, and I owe him a rather large one, it seems.”

“Yeah, but he’s on to you,” Chris says, and Peter glances up. “He’s got all the pieces now except ‘werewolf’.” He shakes his head. “Sloppy of you, using your sister’s knife.”

“Sentimentality,” Peter says. “How’d he know?”

“She killed one of the omegas with it. During the fighting.” Chris is just watching Peter eat, not moving towards the food himself. “As far as I can tell, more omegas died in that fight than lived. The survivors dragged the bodies away and disposed of them in a variety of ways. That one was uncovered by a mudslide about six weeks later. Nobody made the connection _then_. But given the forensic evidence _now_ . . .”

Peter nods and reaches for the container of spring rolls. Then he shrugs. “So. He figures it out, I’m arrested. Fine.” Again with his mouth full, he says, “I told you that there was no happy ending here.”

Chris picks up his fork and continues to study Peter. “If you want to pay back the debt you owe Tom, how about you acknowledge that he didn’t save your life so you could throw it away?”

“In Tom’s eyes, I’m pretty sure I’ve already done so with my vendetta, so it doesn’t really matter what happens to me now.”

Chris slams his hand down on the table, startling both of them. When Peter just blinks at him, he clears his throat and snarls out, “Don’t. Don’t talk about this like you don’t matter. I’m _sorry_ I left you, Peter, but I thought you were dead and I _never_ forgot you. You don’t mean any less to me today than you did the day I came to you after my mother died.”

“What about the day you told me you were getting married and said you didn’t want to see me anymore?” Peter asks. “Or the day I asked you to go to New York City and you turned me down? What about _those_ days, Christopher? How much did you care about me then?”

“It’s not – ” Chris takes a deep breath and reminds himself that _he_ is the one in the wrong here, that getting snarly is only going to make matters worse. “I’m sorry for – for everything. For stringing you along, or making you think that you weren’t important to me. I’m – I’m shit at this kind of thing, okay? God knows you should know that by now.”

“True,” Peter says, and goes back to eating.

“In any case, if you don’t want to make this about us, then think of the kids,” Chris says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Those children have done just fine without me, you know.”

“Putting aside how incredibly screwed up I’m sure all three of them are,” Chris says, “that’s not what this is about. I’ve been to your room, remember? I’ve seen the stack of books with their bookmarks in them, as Derek comes by two or three times a week and goes through the library with you. I’ve seen the letters from Laura that come like clockwork no matter where on the globe she is. I’ve seen the martial arts trophies and ribbons that Cora brings to display in your room so even though you weren’t there, you could still see that she was doing well. Those kids _love_ you, Peter. And you should have some God damned respect for that.”

Peter’s quiet for a minute. “As you say,” he murmurs, and finishes his meal in silence. Chris finally starts eating as well, since it’s obvious that Peter’s done talking for a while.

It’s strange to sit there with him, when so much has changed, and so much _hasn’t_ changed. Peter still loves Vietnamese food, he still licks his fingers when he’s done eating, he still fiddles with the tab on his soda can until it breaks off. There’s so much about him that’s the same, and Chris sits there and _aches_ for the fact that he might never be able to have Peter back, the way things had been.

They put the leftovers in the refrigerator and Peter gets another soda and Chris gets a bottle of water and they regard each other for a few moments, a little warily, neither of them sure what comes next.

It’s Peter who breaks the standoff. “Do you know what I’m going to do to your sister?” he asks, his voice calm and even.

Chris lets out a breath. “Yes,” he says. “By both your code and mine, she deserves execution.”

Peter just stares at him for a long minute. Then he says, more slowly and deliberately, “Do you _understand_ what I’m going to do to your sister?”

There’s a long moment of silence. Chris thinks back to the bodies in the woods, to the way Peter had run them down, letting them try to escape before showing them no mercy. With his skills, it would have been easy to ambush them, kill them before they were even aware of his presence. But he hadn’t. He had wanted them to know they were being hunted. The fact that their deaths had been quick and clean was a matter of circumstance and a risk-reward assessment. Kate won’t get the same mercy. Chris takes a moment to make sure his voice is steady before he speaks. “Torturing Kate won’t bring your family back.”

“Of course not,” Peter says. “But that’s not what this is about. That’s _never been_ what this is about. This isn’t justice, this isn’t an execution under my family’s rules. This is retribution, pure and simple. And I won’t rest until she’s suffered as much as I have.” His lip curls and he adds, “You can never understand that.”

Chris’ temper flares. “You know what, Peter, _fuck you_ ,” he says. “Talia was my friend too. I might not have been friends with your cousin Sean, but I respected him as a good man. Your entire family was willing to shelter me, a werewolf, from my own pack. Maybe I didn’t lose as much as you, but don’t you fucking dare suggest that I didn’t lose anything. You spent six years in unimaginable pain, well, guess what, asshole, _so did I._ ”

Peter looks away, but then he nods in acquiescence. It’s more than Chris expected to get. Finally, he says, “Does this change things?”

“Which things?” Chris asks, trying to feel out Peter’s question a little more.

Peter twitches his fingers a little. “Us.”

Chris shakes his head. “Six years ago, if anyone had asked me what you would to if someone murdered your family, this is exactly what I would have said you would do. I loved you then, even knowing that. No, it doesn’t change things. Yes, I understand that you’re going to torture and kill my sister. Just don’t throw it in my God damned face.”

“That seems reasonable,” Peter says, and sat down on the bed, Indian-style. “I’m going to need your help to get to her.”

“She’s an alpha now,” Chris says.

“Yes, I know.” Peter grimaces. “I saw her in the woods that first night, when she found the first omega’s body. Her response was, shall we say, not pretty. A bit over the top. Then she bit that kid, and took to throwing him at me every time I went after an omega. It was all I could do to keep from snapping his neck just to get him out of the way. Poor little fucker.”

“That’s Scott McCall, you know,” Chris says. “Melissa’s son.”

“Is it? Good thing I restrained myself, then. Hell hath no fury, you know.” Peter sits down on the sofa with his soda.

Chris takes one of the kitchen chairs and turns it around so he can straddle it backwards. “Kate apparently promised pack protection to the omegas if they helped her. I think she convinced them that you were some sort of imminent threat. But the pack lives all the way on the outskirts of town. Scott could get there faster. She used him to try to slow you down, hoping that she could get to you before you finished the job. I used the term ‘you’ loosely, by the way. She and my father are both convinced that I’m the one killing the omegas.”

Peter nods. “You’re really the only one besides me who has both the motive and the ability.”

“And Derek,” Chris says.

“Do you think so?” Peter asks. “I love my nephew, but he’s not a killer.”

“You might be right,” Chris says. “You know him better than I do. He’s known who was responsible this entire time and he hasn’t said anything to anyone, let alone tried to get any sort of revenge.” He watches Peter’s face carefully. “He obviously has a lot of guilt about what happened.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says, and from the sudden edge of bloodlust to his scent, Chris thinks he’s pondering all the different ways he’s going to torture Kate before he kills her. “Well, I’ll talk to him about it. At some point. So. Kate’s an alpha. Which is going to make her damned near impossible to kill. I’ve only ever fought an alpha once before, and I had considerable backup at the time.”

“You could get backup,” Chris reminds him. “I mean, you had friends, Talia had friends. If they knew you – _we_ – have proof of what my family had done, they would come support you.”

Peter considers it, then shakes his head. “No. This is mine to do. It’s selfish and idiotic, but I have to handle this myself.”

“So what do you want to do?” Chris asks, thinking that he’ll tackle this later.

Peter stands up and paces around for a minute. “I’m not sure yet,” he finally says. “I’ll need some time to think about it. Because it’s not just her. It’s also Gerard. He might not have been responsible for what happened to my family, but he _is_ responsible for your mother’s death. That deserves an answer. And in any case, he’s not going to sit around idle while we murder his daughter.”

“And let’s not forget that it would be nice if you didn’t wind up in jail,” Chris says.

“Right, of course,” Peter says. He sounds a little amused, and the corner of his mouth quirks.

“Was that – was that a smile?” Chris asks. “Did I just get a smile?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter says loftily.

Chris studies him for a minute. “God, look at you,” he finally says, and then sees Peter’s jaw tighten and realizes that, given Peter’s appearance, that could be taken the wrong way. “I’m glad you’re with me again.”

Peter glances at him and says nothing for a long minute. Then, finally, he says, “It was hard, you know. Not saying anything to you, all those times you came to visit. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I wanted to trust you. For things to be simple between us, like they were in the old days.”

Chris leans down and kisses Peter on the crown of his head. “There’s going to come a day when it’s going to be simple again. When it’s going to be just you and me, the way it used to be.”

Peter doesn’t respond for a long time. When he does, he says, “I wish I could believe that.”

“For now, let me believe it enough for both of us.”

Peter turns into Chris’ embrace and says, surprisingly, “All right.”

“Is there an ‘us’?” Chris finally asks, after holding him for a long minute.

“You seem to want there to be,” Peter replies.

“Yeah, well, you’ve seemed pretty pissed off at me,” Chris points out.

Peter looks up at him, and for a moment he just looks exhausted, worn out and heartbroken. But there’s a note of wry humor in his voice when he says, “It’s possible that I’m having some emotional instability, given the givens.”

Chris gives a snort. Then he takes Peter’s face in his hands. “Do you want there to be an ‘us’?”

He’s not sure what he expects. A simple yes or no, a sarcastic quip, for Peter to slap his hands away. Even no answer at all. What he’s not expecting is what he gets: absolute honesty, when Peter lifts his gaze to Chris and says, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Chris leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet. Peter doesn’t resist, but when Chris tries to deepen the kiss, he pulls away. Chris lets him, running his thumb over Peter’s lips, pressing a kiss into his forehead, trailing his fingers through Peter’s hair. When Peter still doesn’t respond, Chris goes in for another kiss. This time, Peter reaches up and pushes his face away. “Stop it,” he says. “I don’t want your pity.”

Chris is somewhat taken aback. “Is _that_ what you think this is?”

Peter’s lip curls in a manner that’s very reminiscent of a wolf. “I’m aware of what I look like. So don’t put yourself out.”

There’s only one possible response to that, really; Chris leans in and kisses him again. Peter goes rigid in his arms, but at least this time he doesn’t push Chris away. “Never figured you for an idiot,” Chris says, backing Peter against a wall. “You think a few scars are going to put me off? Is that what you think of me?”

“A few,” Peter says, his voice bitingly sarcastic. “I had burns over eighty percent of my body. At least half of those were third degree. They said it was a miracle I survived at all.”

“But you did,” Chris says, “and I figure it has to have been for something.”

“Son of a bitch,” Peter says, and then they’re kissing again. He lets Chris push him up against the wall, running his fingers over the bristles of Chris’ short hair. “You need to grow your hair back out,” he says, tilting his head back as Chris mouthed at his jaw in wet, messy kisses.

“Okay, and you need to get yours cut,” Chris replies. Peter makes an incoherent little noise which Chris likes very much. He gets his hands underneath Peter’s thighs and hikes him up against the wall, smirking when Peter lets out a string of profanities.

“I feel that I should tell you,” Peter says, his voice a little more breathy than before, as Chris works a line of bruises down his neck, “that I haven’t had sex in over six years.”

“Mm hm,” Chris says into his shoulder, and rolls his hips against Peter’s. “Does that mean I’m supposed to take things slow? Or that I’d better make it fast?”

“Well, the former would be – nn! – nice, but I think the, the latter is a little more realistic,” Peter says breathlessly. He twists his hands into the back of Chris’ shirt and lets Chris work them into a rhythm up against the wall, making more of those encouraging little noises until he shudders, hands clenching down, and then goes still. “Fuck. I’ve missed this.”

“Me too,” Chris says, easing Peter down the wall and letting his feet touch the floor. He lets Peter breathe for a few minutes, pressing more kisses into his neck and shoulders, feeling the way he trembled, loving the way he would never admit it. Then he slides his hands up underneath the other man’s shirt, preparing to pull it over his head.

Peter pushes his hands away. “Don’t,” he said.

Chris sighs, and this time he backs off. “Jesus, Peter, what do I have to do to convince you that I don’t care about your scars?”

“Maybe I care about them,” Peter snaps. “Do you have the slightest idea what full coverage burns leave behind? No, of course you don’t, because you’re a God damned werewolf. Up until five minutes ago, I wasn’t sure my dick still _worked_ , so maybe you should just accept the fact that I don’t particularly want you gawking at it.”

“Werewolves can scar, you know,” Chris says, and Peter gives him a withering look. “Okay, fine. You’re right. I have no idea what this has been like for you. But I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I’m not going to be put off by it besides _looking_ at it.”

Peter growls at him, and without further ado, tugs his shirt off, jerks his pants down, slides them off along with his underwear, and throws them aside. He stands there completely naked with his arms spread, staring intensely at Chris. “Well?” he demands.

It’s bad; Chris will be the first to admit that. The rough, deformed tissue spreads across his abdomen, over his left hip and down his thigh. His legs are basically covered with the scars. The rest of him, well. It looks _different_ , Chris isn’t sure exactly how, shifts in coloration, lines and wrinkles where they weren’t before. He puts his hand on Peter’s stomach, tracing some of the lines down, and then drops to his knees.

“Son of a bitch,” Peter says, leaning back against the wall as Chris presses a line of kisses across his hip. He’s strangely silent when Chris drags his tongue up his cock, then draws it all the way into his mouth. He’s always been – not exactly loud, but – encouraging.

Chris doesn’t let it bother him for the first minute, but his silence persists, and he’s not really getting hard, either. He pulls away. “Are you – okay?”

Peter’s quiet for another moment before saying, “It doesn’t really feel like much.”

Chris draws in a breath and tries to think of what to say. Are there any words in the English language that are an appropriate response to that? He decides to be practical about it. Peter’s always been a big fan of practicality. “Okay, well, let’s try something else.” He gets to his feet and steers Peter over to the bed, making him lie down. Peter goes along with this, and he seems tense, but not exactly unhappy. Or at least, no less happy than Chris would expect, given their circumstances.

“You seriously bought lube?” he asks, when Chris takes it out of the drawer. “I can’t decide whether I should be offended or not.”

Chris leans over and nips at his ear. “I’ve never been able to keep my hands off you, Hale. Now here I was volunteering to stay in an apartment with you for a week. Hell yes, I bought lube. You can be offended all you want.”

That seems to break the worst of Peter’s reluctance, knowing that Chris had _prepared_ for this, that it wasn’t some sort of half-hearted pity fuck. He relaxes under his hands, lets Chris kiss and caress him, seeking out the spots that still have the most sensation. He doesn’t protest when Chris presses a finger inside him, arching up against him reflexively.

“God, Peter, you’re so tight,” Chris groans into Peter’s hip, imagining what that’s going to feel like later. He could fuck him – Peter’s always liked being fucked – but not yet. This is about Peter right now, about proving to him that he can still feel. It’s not time for Chris to get off. Peter sucks in a breath at the tone of Chris’ voice, though, so he’s clearly anticipating it, too.

“I did say it had been a while,” he says, voice trembling.

“Mm hm.” Chris bites at his collarbone. Firm sensation seems to work better, he notes, and rubs a thumb over one of Peter’s nipples, getting a rewarding grunt in response. So his nerve endings aren’t as sensitive anymore, but he _can_ still feel. That’s encouraging. He works a second finger inside, curves them like he remembers, searching for the right spot.

“Oh, _fuck_ , oh,” Peter gasps out, when he finds it. “Fuck. Christopher.”

“That’s it, just relax into it,” Chris says into his thigh. _Now_ Peter is getting hard, he notes in satisfaction. He works Peter into a rhythm, rubbing his face against Peter’s hip, savoring the little noises he makes, the way his toes curl, his entire body going taut and arching as his orgasm hits him. Chris is out of breath with it, so hard that it’s physically painful as Peter struggles to catch his breath while he comes down from it.

“Okay,” Peter finally mumbles. “You were right.”

“Uh huh,” Chris says, unable to help it, grabbing his cock in one hand and giving himself tight, quick strokes. He noses into Peter’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, jerking himself off until he comes all over Peter’s stomach. Peter barely even twitches; he’s already ninety percent asleep. Chris thinks that he should get them cleaned up, probably, but he’s so tired, his entire body feels heavy. Peter’s hand comes around and loosely curls around the back of his neck, and that answers that question adequately. He closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

  

~ ~ ~ ~


	21. Chapter 21

 

It takes Stiles a while, but he gradually becomes so engrossed in Battlestar Galactica that he sort of forgets about Derek’s head in his lap and his still throbbing ankle. He knows that there are probably a million things he should be doing or places he should be going, but as long as he’s on the sofa with Derek, he doesn’t care about any of it.

He startles when his phone rings, and nearly dislodges Derek when he jumps. Derek just sits up and gives him the arched eyebrow of judgment, and, well. It takes a lot of effort for Stiles not to just throw himself onto the older man. He contains himself and grabs his phone, glancing at the screen. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Have you seen your sister?” Tom asks.

“What? Uh, no,” Stiles lies. “Well, I mean, we didn’t leave school together. I came over to Scott’s place, I don’t know where she went. Is, uh, is everything okay?”

“I hope so. She’s just not answering my texts. I wanted to know if she’d be home for dinner.”

“Oh, well, I’ll see if I can track her down, she’s probably working out with her earbuds in and hasn’t heard her phone,” Stiles says. “I’ll call you back,” he adds, and taps the screen to end the call. “Fuck. I know she’s upset, but she – we’d better make sure she’s okay.”

“I’m a halfway decent tracker, but . . .” Derek’s face is clouded with self-doubt.

“I’ll call Scott,” Stiles decides.

Derek blinks at him. “What’s Scott going to do?”

“Well, hopefully he can use his nose.” Stiles blinks back. “Shit, I forgot that you didn’t actually know. Scott’s a werewolf.”

“But – ” Derek rubs a hand over his face. “But he was hurt.”

“Yeah, apparently Kate knocked him around a little bit because she didn’t think he made a good werewolf.” Stiles hauls himself to his feet and tests his weight on his ankle gingerly. He looks at Derek and says, “You really didn’t want to believe it, huh? But he hasn’t killed anybody, Derek. He hasn’t even _hurt_ anybody, except, you know, me. A couple times. Nothing serious.” He takes his phone out and calls Scott. “Hey, where are you at?”

“Over at Allison’s,” Scott says, and Stiles rolls his eyes because of course he is. “What’s up?”

“Can you come help me sniff out where Cora’s gone? She was . . . upset when she left, and it’s been hours and now she’s not answering her texts.”

“Sure,” Scott says. “Where should I meet you?”

“I’m at your place.”

“Okay, we’ll be right there,” Scott says, and hangs up, and Stiles rolls his eyes again because of course it’s ‘we’. He can’t blame Scott for his profound adoration of Allison, but it can still get annoying sometimes.

“Look, let me . . . let me explain what happened, okay?” he says to Derek. “While we’re waiting for them to get here.”

Derek nods, so Stiles does. He starts at the beginning, and tells Derek everything. There’s a lot of relief in it. He hates all this sneaking around and keeping secrets. Derek asks some intelligent questions, and he goes as quickly as he can. When he’s done, he says, “So I still have no idea who’s killing people, and Chris went off somewhere and left me in the forest, and Kate’s the devil, but I think maybe we shouldn’t mention that to anybody yet.”

“Why not?” Derek asks, frowning.

“Scott says Allison’s really close to her aunt, and . . . I just think we should proceed carefully, that’s all,” Stiles says. “I mean, we need to think about what we’re going to do, how we’re going to handle this. Are we even going to do anything at all? We’re _kids_ , Derek. Maybe we should just let Chris take care of it.”

“Like I’d trust him to do anything,” Derek mutters.

“Well, that’s just – that’s what I’m saying, we should sit down and talk it out, and I just – let’s leave Scott out of it for now, okay? Hopefully Kate will stick by her agreement and not try to mess with him anymore. I just want him to be safe, you know?”

Derek nods. “Yeah. I want that, too. I was – ”

He breaks off as the front door bangs open and Scott comes in with Allison in tow. He gives Stiles a questioning look. Stiles takes a breath and says, “So, Allison, your dad came over to chat with Derek about werewolf stuff and the murders and everything, and Cora decided to take exception to his presence because she thinks he must be the one who got her family killed because he’s the only other person who knew how to bypass the security, and we all got in a big argument and Cora stormed off.” He says all of this very fast. “So now we need to track down Cora and make sure she’s okay before my dad figures out that she’s missing.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Scott says, heading for the back door.

“Where did my dad go?” Allison asks, frowning.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Stiles admits. “He kinda looked like I had hit him in the face with a board? Which is weird. I don’t think I told him anything that he didn’t already know. But maybe he just suddenly realized something.”

“I’m going to call him,” Allison says, taking out her phone. She holds it up to her ear, then frowns and says, “Voicemail.” She hangs up without leaving a message.

“Well, if we’re lucky, he’ll come home tomorrow with donuts and tell you he figured everything out and fixed everything,” Stiles says.

“I could live with that,” Scott says. He lifts his chin a little, sniffs, and then says, “This way.”

They tramp through the forest for nearly half an hour, going deeper and deeper into the preserve. Stiles starts to worry that Cora is brooding outside the shell of their old family home, but then Scott turns, following the stream. They find her throwing stones into the river with considerable force. Derek takes a deep breath, and walks over to her. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Go away,” she snaps.

Derek sighs, turns away, and does as he’s told. Stiles can see the anguish on his face, and it pisses him off for a huge variety of reasons. Cora’s already walking away, and she clearly doesn’t intend to let any of them bring her home.

“Let me talk to her,” Stiles says, and marches after Cora. He waits until they’re out of earshot, then grabs her by the arm. “Hey. You,” he says, and she snarls at him. “Don’t give me that, I’m immune to your snarling. You’re being a bitch to Derek, and you need to cut it out.”

“He got our entire family killed and I’m supposed to pat him on the head and say that’s okay?” Cora snaps at him.

“No,” Stiles says, fighting for composure. “But for one thing, I can absolutely guarantee you that no matter how angry you are, there’s nothing you can say to him that he hasn’t said to himself every night for the last six years. Secondly, you’re forgetting that Derek was even younger then than you are now when all that happened. How many good decisions did _you_ make last year? I seem to remember that you dated a guy with ‘no regrets’ tattooed on him, spelled wrong.” He sees Cora’s jaw tighten. “How about we place the blame for your family’s death where it belongs, on the psycho bitch who killed them, and try to forgive your brother for a mistake that’s fucked him up for the last six years?”

“You say that like it’s so easy,” Cora says. “Just forgive him.”

“No, I said _try_ to forgive him. I said ‘stop being a bitch to him’, not go over there and tell him that everything is flowers and sunshine. Just go over there and apologize to my boyfriend. Okay?”

“Fine,” Cora snarls, then blinks. “Wait. Your boyfriend?”

Stiles nods and grins at her. Then he says, “Well, uh, sort of. I mean, he agreed to go on a date with me. That’s probably not the same thing, really. But I’ll take it, I mean, one date is good, I can deal with one date hopefully leading to a second date – ”

“You’re such a loser,” Cora says, but a little smile is touching the corner of her mouth now. “Okay, fine. I will go apologize to your boyfriend and my brother. Dork.”

“That’s my girl.” Stiles slings an arm around her shoulder and heads over to where Derek is standing with Scott and Allison. Cora walks over with him somewhat reluctantly, but then she sees the heartbreak on Derek’s face, and something inside her crumbles. She steps over and wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him as hard as she can, saying nothing.

Stiles breathes a little sigh of relief. “C’mon guys,” he says quietly. “Let’s go home.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter wakes up slowly, a little bit at a time. He’s aware for a while of just being warm, and comfortable, and generally feeling . . . good. It’s a novelty for him. Pain is a constant, and even now he can feel it lurking, but it’s just on the edges of his senses, not something that’s bothering him. He becomes aware of a hand on the side of his face, a thumb rubbing over his cheekbone, and he knows without opening his eyes that Chris is watching him sleep.

Fully awake now, he withdraws inward, trying to decide how he feels about this. It certainly isn’t anything he had ever expected he would have again. Even through Chris’ many visits to his room, he had always figured that if Chris became aware of what he was doing, his deception, his murders, that Chris would leave him again. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope for anything different, because he had been sure that being abandoned a second time would kill him.

But the more he tries to think about it, the more he realizes there’s nothing to think about. He was never able to give Chris up in the past; he’s not going to be able to do it now. Not when he feels safe and content for the first time in six years.

“You’re crying.” Chris’ voice is rough with sleep. “Why?”

Peter opens his eyes, tries to think of the words for how he’s feeling. “I missed you,” he finally says. “God, how I missed you.”

Chris leans forward and kisses him. “You know what’s going to happen now?” he says. “We’re going to fight a lot. We’re going to argue about how to handle this, we’re going to disagree eight different times an hour. That’s why I want to let you know, right here, right now, that I’m not leaving you again. No matter what happens.”

“All right,” Peter says, and then can’t resist, “Sappy bastard.”

“See what you do to me, Hale?” Chris agrees, and he sits up, dislodging the sheets.

Peter starts to pull them back up, but Chris stops him. He studies Peter’s nude body for a long minute, and Peter can’t meet his gaze no matter how hard he tries. Then he says, “I know it doesn’t mean anything, but . . . I’m sorry for what happened to you, Peter. This . . . none of this . . .” He reaches out and runs a hand over Peter’s chest, rubbing his thumb along the ridges of one of the worst scars. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Or want to stop looking at you. So don’t hide from me. The rest of the world, if you want to hide from them, if you want to wear a shirt at the beach for the rest of your life, I’d understand. But don’t hide from me.”

“Intense sunlight and salt water are incredibly bad for burn scars, so I probably won’t be hitting the beach any time soon,” Peter says, and Chris just looks at him. Peter looks away and murmurs, “Thanks.”

Chris gets up. “C’mon, roll over. You need your medicine.”

“I can do it my – ”

“Even you aren’t flexible enough to get this onto all the places it needs to go,” Chris says, “and if you think rubbing lotion on your back is something I consider a chore, think again, Hale.”

Peter smiles at that despite himself and rolls over, although he keeps the sheet pulled up to his waist. A few moments later and Chris is spreading the medicated lotion onto his skin with firm, confident hands. Peter moans despite himself. “Oh, Jesus, I could definitely get used to this,” he says.

“Good. Get used to it,” Chris says, his hands digging into the muscles of Peter’s shoulders in a way that turns him to immediate jelly. “We should have our first argument while you’re at my mercy.”

Peter gives a snort of laughter. “Okay. Fire when ready.”

“We need to tell _somebody_ that I’ve taken you out of the nursing home. Otherwise the kids are going to get a hell of a surprise in a few days.”

Peter grunted as Chris worked at a knot in his back. “Especially since you’re pretending to be my brother. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear they’ve gained another uncle.”

“I won’t say anything about you being awake and talking,” Chris says, “or killing people, for that matter. But I have to call Tom and at least let him know that I’ve moved you to a safehouse.”

Peter nods. “All right.”

That had clearly been easier than Chris was expecting. He’s quiet for a few long minutes, then pulls the sheet aside and starts working on Peter’s legs. Peter gives a little hiss of discomfort. “Is it – ”

“It’s fine,” Peter interrupts. “Just stings a little sometimes.”

Chris nods. “These are the worst, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. The fire started under my feet. My legs were burned the worst, but once my clothes caught, pretty much everything was fucked.” Peter shifts a little as Chris rubs the lotion into the soles of his feet. “There are things I’m definitely glad I _don’t_ remember. Like learning to walk again. So much of my physical recovery is just . . . blank.”

“Probably a good thing,” Chris says. “Ready for our next argument?”

“Not until you’re done with my legs.”

“Fair enough.”

In the end, their second argument – or really their first, since Peter hadn’t argued about calling Tom – isn’t until an hour later. It takes a while to apply all the lotion, and by then Peter’s incredibly hard and begging for more, and Chris is happy to oblige him. He takes a little while experimenting on whether or not handjobs will still be enough to get Peter off, if he’s less sensitive. The final verdict is that they are, with a firm enough grip and a lot of patience. When it comes to being in bed with Peter, patience is something he has in abundance. He loves watching the other man writhe and moan under his grip. Peter’s not quite as patient, but the prolonged massage has him in a pliant mood, and he doesn’t rush things.

Chris thinks again about fucking him, and again decides against it. Right now he just has to convince Peter that he wants him, that his body is still something that can give him pleasure instead of his enemy. And if he has to spend a few weeks in sexual servitude to make up for six absent years, that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay. Once Peter is satisfied, sighing and stretching on the bed like an overgrown feline, Chris jerks himself off while watching the other man bask in the afterglow.

They finally drag themselves out of bed when Peter’s stomach starts growling. “What do you want to eat?” Chris asks. “Now that you’re done with the mashed potatoes and peas. Pick whatever you want.”

“Let’s order pizza,” Peter says. “I want pizza and beer, like I’m nineteen again.”

Chris laughs and picks up the phone. While they’re waiting for the food, he says, “We need to talk about this whole ‘I have to do this by myself’ thing you’ve got going on.”

Peter’s jaw tightens and he looks away. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he says.

“That’s not what this is about,” Chris says. “I don’t have to understand. But I would really like to come out on the other side of us with our skin intact. And if that means calling up a few of your old hunting buddies, I’m all for it.”

“I can’t,” Peter says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “This isn’t . . . how things are done, in the hunter community. A vendetta like this would be heavily frowned upon.”

“Why?” Chris asks. “I thought killing the bad guys is what you did.”

“Yes. But it has to be for the right reasons.” Peter sits down at the kitchen table, knotting his hands in front of himself. “It’s too easy for hunters to cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed. We police ourselves very firmly because of this, and anyone who strays is dealt with harshly. Killing the omegas, killing Kate, to eliminate them and keep them from harming anyone else, that’s acceptable. Doing it for revenge, making them suffer as I have, that isn’t. Hunters die young; it’s a fate we all accept. Getting angry about my family being killed by monsters is . . . something the hunter community in general wouldn’t understand. Oh, the hunters would come. They would help put Kate down like the rabid animal she is, for the sake of innocent people. And then – I don’t know that they would kill me. But they wouldn’t allow me to keep hunting afterwards. And without that – what would I do? Who would I be?” Peter shakes his head. “I’ll involve them if I absolutely have to, as a last-ditch resort. But I don’t think we’ve come to that yet.”

Chris thinks about all of that, and then nods. “Okay. That sounds reasonable. What about Tom?”

“What about him?” Peter asks.

“He could help us. Among other things, he’s a dead shot with his 9 mil.”

“There are a lot of really good reasons not to involve him. He’ll want to do something stupid like try to have Kate arrested.”

“But what if we bring him in on it? On everything?” Chris holds up a hand and lets his claws show. “I think he’d understand that Kate has to be dealt with, one way or another. And it’s more than that. His kids are involved.”

“I thought you said it was Scott that was turned.”

“It was,” Chris says, “but Tom and Melissa are basically a couple now – ”

“Are they? Good for them.”

“ – and Scott and Stiles were basically raised as brothers anyway. Besides, Tom adopted Cora, remember, and if you think she isn’t sticking her nose into this, you’d be wrong. She and Stiles put together that it has _something_ to do with your family being killed, and they’re not going to let this go. Hell, in the twenty-four hours since I last saw them, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve figured out you’re the one killing omegas.”

“Lovely.”

“My point is just that if we keep this from him, Tom’s going to kick our asses, and he’s going to be right.” Chris lets out a breath and says, “There’s no reason to keep this from him, Peter. We’re not alone in this. _You_ are not alone in this.”

Peter looks away. “Tom’s one of those few people I’ve ever met who’s really a _good_ person, in that . . . deep-down-inside place. He and Claudia. I always admired them for that. He’s got an integrity to him that can’t be duplicated if it’s not genuine.”

“If you’re worried about him getting in the way – ”

“It’s not that.” Peter looks up. “I just don’t want him to know that I’m a killer.”

Chris lets out a breath. “Okay,” he finally says. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

“I notice you don’t suggest bringing the kids in on it,” Peter says, “even though to my mind, they’re the best candidates. You said that Stiles and Cora have already involved themselves. They’re clearly quite intelligent, and probably a great deal more underhanded than Tom would like to admit.”

“They’re children, Peter.”

“Nobody who hid in a closet and listen to their mother be murdered is a child,” Peter says. “Nobody who had to step over their father to read their mother’s eulogy at her funeral is a child.”

“Peter,” Chris says quietly, “no.”

“I won’t go to them,” Peter says, “but I won’t turn them away, if they come to me.”

Chris’ jaw clenches for a minute, and then he waves this aside because he’s fairly sure he can make certain it doesn’t happen. “Okay. I’m going to call Tom, while we’re waiting for the food.”

Peter nods, then goes to the fridge to get himself a beer. He keeps half an eye on Chris while he takes out his phone and dials. “Tom, it’s Chris. I just wanted to let you know, I checked Peter out of the nursing home for now.”

“You _what_?” Tom’s voice comes out of the receiver, loud enough for Peter to hear.

Chris, with his superior werewolf hearing, flinches despite himself. He clears his throat and says. “Look, a lot’s going on, and it wasn’t safe – ”

“No, it was safe,” Tom interrupts. “That was the whole purpose of him _being_ there, to keep him safe. Remember, the fake name, death certificate, that whole thing?”

“Yes, believe me, I’m not about to forget thinking he was dead any time soon,” Chris says, then regains control of himself. “Look. I have to do what’s in his best interest. I’ve got him in a very safe location. He’ll be fine here, and I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“He needs ongoing medical care – ”

“I’ve seen to all of that. I know you’re pissed – ”

“You wanna come over so I can show you _how_ pissed?”

“ – but if you can’t trust me about any of the stuff that’s going on, trust at least this much: I would die before I let any harm come to him. He’s safe here. I promise.”

“What do you want me to do, give you a medal?” Tom sounds disgusted even from across town. “What the hell am I supposed to tell the kids? You know what, scratch that. Unless you’re willing to level with me and tell me exactly what’s going on, I’m not telling the kids anything besides that you’ve moved him. _You_ worry about it when they have questions. Believe you me, I’ll make sure they know _exactly_ who to go to for answers. Tell Cora’s right hook I said hello.”

Chris winces again, but Tom hangs up before he can say anything else, since it’s obvious that Chris isn’t going to ‘level’ with him.

“That could’ve gone better,” Peter observes.

“Actually, I don’t think it could’ve,” Chris replies.

“Point,” Peter agrees, and then the pizza arrives.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles looks up from the papers he’s buried himself in after school on Friday when there’s a brief knock on his door and he sees his father there, looking irritated and a little uncertain. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” he says. “Probably. What is it?”

“Do I even want to know what you miscreants are up to in here?” Tom asks, looking between Stiles, Cora, and Derek.

“Studying,” Stiles says. “Derek’s helping Cora and I on a project we’re doing for our history class. History of Beacon Hills, you know, local stuff. What’s up?”

His father looks skeptical, to put it mildly. But then he lets out a breath and says, “I just wanted to let you two know that your uncle Peter has been temporarily . . . relocated. So don’t worry about visiting him this weekend.”

“What? Why?” Derek sounds alarmed. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t have a lot of answers for your questions,” Tom says. “Hell, I don’t have a lot of answers for _my_ questions. What I can tell you is that Chris Argent felt he wasn’t safe at the nursing home, and he took him to what he called a ‘safe house’. He says that he’ll make sure nothing happens to him, and on that score, at least, I believe him. But if you want to try to get more answers out of him, you’ll probably have better luck than me.”

With that, he leaves the room. Stiles is left blinking after him. He’s keenly aware that his father isn’t happy with all the secrets that have been kept from him, but he’s also remembering what had happened the previous evening, and while Cora and Derek are still looking at each other helplessly, he blurts out, “Holy shit, I think your uncle is the one killing people.”

Cora jerks like she was slapped. Her eyes go wide and she looks uncertainly at Derek. His jaw sets in a thin line. “I guess it’s possible,” he finally says.

“Dude, it’s more than possible,” Stiles says, “it would explain _everything_. I mean, you said yourself that Peter was the most skilled hunter in your family, besides maybe your mom. These are precise, professional kills. It would explain why it’s happening all of a sudden – Chris coming back must have, have triggered something in him.”

“I’d believe that Uncle Peter’s killing people,” Cora says, “before I’d believe he would just sit and not talk to us.”

“We don’t know that’s what’s happening,” Stiles says. “He could be doing it in some sort of fugue state or something.”

“Well, either way, I’m not going to let Chris Argent just walk off with him,” Derek snarls.

“I’ve got his number,” Stiles says. “I got it out of Scott’s phone while he wasn’t looking, you know, just in case.” He takes his phone and hesitantly offers it to Derek.

Derek takes it from his hand and taps the screen, putting it on speaker before he dials. Chris picks up a few moments later with a cautious hello, which makes sense, given that the call is coming from an unknown number. Derek launches into things without preamble. “Where’s my uncle?”

“He’s here, with me, and he’s safe,” Chris says.

“Where’s here?” Derek demands.

“It’s a safe house. Telling you where would defeat the purpose.”

“I’m not asking you to post on Foursquare. I’m asking you to tell me where my uncle is.”

“He’s here, in a safe house, with me,” Chris repeats, carefully emphasizing each word.

“How do I even know you’re telling the truth?” Derek asks. “How do I know you haven’t killed him and just tossed his body somewhere?”

“Would you like me to send you a picture?”

Derek takes a deep breath, then takes the plunge. “I want to talk to him.”

Chris sighs. “Derek, you can’t – ”

But then Chris stops talking. The silence is only a few seconds long, but it feels like a lifetime to everyone in the room. Then a quiet voice, a little rusty from disuse, says, “Hello, nephew.”

“Uncle Peter.” Derek chokes out the words. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Peter says. “Chris has taken good care of me. I do apologize for the deceptions that were necessary. You should know I did it for your protection, and that it truly only has been the last few months, not the past six years. Is that Cora I hear in the background?”

Cora’s quietly crying into the hem of her shirt. “I’m here,” she says.

“Good,” Peter says. “I know that I don’t need to tell you not to mention this to anyone. I have some things that I need to take care of. Chris is going to help me.”

“We could help you,” Derek protests.

“No,” Peter says. “You’re many things, Derek, but you’re not a killer, and I don’t want to see you on that road. I’ll be fine. We’ll be together again before you know it.”

“Uncle Peter,” Derek says, his voice raw with pain. “I have to – to tell you – I’m sorry – ”

“No, Derek,” Peter says. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. None of this is your fault.” There’s a murmured comment in the background. “I mean that. We’ll talk more about this later. I have to go now, all right?”

“Be careful,” Cora says.

“Yes, I will be,” Peter says. “I love you both,” he adds, and then hangs up before they can say anything else.

Cora is crying, still, and Stiles reaches out and puts an arm around her shoulders, hugging her hard. She leans her face against him, trying to hide her tears. Derek just continues to sit there and hold the phone in one hand, but he looks up when Stiles reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, and manages a wan smile. “What do you think we should do?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing,” Derek says. “If Peter and Chris have a plan to take care of the Argents, then as far as I’m concerned, they can . . . they can do what they need to do.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm~
> 
> Moderately NSFW.

“This is a bad idea,” Chris says, as he pulls his car up to the main gate. Peter is in the back, laying in the space between the seats, covered with a blanket. “A _terrible_ idea,” he reiterates, rolling the window down so he can check in with the guard. “How the fuck did you talk me into this? This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Once they’re inside, Peter sits up, shoving the blanket aside. “I know,” he says.

“They still think you’re dead,” Chris reminds him. “They have no idea you’re alive. You have the element of surprise.”

“I know,” Peter says again, “but I want them to know that it’s me. I want them to know _exactly_ who’s coming for them, and I want to see the fear in their eyes.” He leans over the seat and nips at Chris’ ear. “Come on. Let’s be young and reckless again.”

Chris laughs despite himself. “You’re _insane_ ,” he says.

“Well, yes,” Peter says. “Most likely.”

Chris shakes his head and parks the car behind the house. “You can get in by yourself?” he asks, and Peter nods. “And you remember where the room is?”

“It’s all in here,” Peter says, tapping the side of his head. “No need to fret. This won’t take ten minutes.” He leans over the seat again, pressing his face into the crook of Chris’ shoulder. “We’ll get this done, and then we’re going to go back to your adorable little safehouse, and you can bend me over and fuck me into the mattress.”

“Jesus, Peter,” Chris says. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”

Peter just smirks at him and gets out of the car. Chris watches him blend into the shadows. Another few moments and he can’t even be sure of where Peter is. He thinks he gets a glimpse of him climbing up one of the trellises, but he’s not sure. He shakes his head and waits five minutes for Peter to have time to get inside and get into the little chamber. Then he goes in.

This time, he’s expected. Gerard is clearly losing patience with him. “Kill any good omegas lately?” he greets him.

“No,” Chris says, “but I found out who did.”

That clearly takes both him and Kate aback; of all the things they were expecting, it wasn’t on the list. Gerard regards him suspiciously for a few minutes before saying, “All right, son. I’ll bite. Who, pray tell, is killing the omegas?”

Chris tosses two photographs down onto the table. He took them at the safehouse the previous day. One is a shot of Peter glancing over his shoulder as he goes through the apartment building door. The other is a picture of him through the window. Good pictures, both of them. He should think about adding surveillance to his security consultancy business.

Kate glances at them, and then does a double take. “Is that who I think – ”

“Yeah,” Chris says, and he doesn’t even bother trying to keep the smile off his face. “That, sister dear, is Peter Hale.”

Gerard folds his hands in his lap. “Peter Hale is dead,” he says. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, Chris, but – ”

“Peter Hale has spent the last six years in a nursing home under the name Patrick Hardy,” Chris interrupts. “You did a number on him, that’s a fact. But you didn’t count on the fact that Peter still had friends. They snuck him out of the hospital while he was still recuperating, had a death certificate issued, and put the story in the paper. Poor Peter Hale, after a brief struggle, succumbed to the injuries he received when his car caught fire.”

“Christ,” Kate says, and Chris has to admit that Peter has a point. He’s really enjoying this. She takes a closer look at the pictures, looking at the scars. “He killed the omegas. Jesus, that explains so much.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “He killed the omegas. And now he’s coming for you.”

“Didn’t you say he wouldn’t move without proof?” Gerard asks.

“Oh, he has proof now,” Chris says, and he’s talking to Gerard, but he’s watching Kate. “He figured out how you got your hired goons past the security.” He sees her face go tight and angry. “Nice move, trying to put the guilt trip on me so I’d be too upset to stop and think about how you really did it, Kate. Seducing a fifteen year old. That’s low even for you. Derek’s told us everything at this point, so there’s no use in denying it.”

Kate gives a little shrug; she obviously wasn’t planning on it. It’s Gerard who speaks. “Us?” he says harshly. “Are you officially siding with them, then? Over your own family, your own pack?”

“Please,” Chris says. “Don’t try to use my sense of family duty against me. You gave up that right the day you murdered my mother. But to answer your question, no. I’m officially taking no sides in this argument. I’d help Peter, if he wanted me to. But he wants to do this on his own. It’s a point of pride for him. And I think he’s afraid that I might not have the stomach to watch _exactly_ what he wants to do to you. Something about ‘matching every drop of blood spilled’ or maybe it was ‘making them suffer as much as I have’.”

Kate’s expression is closely guarded, but Chris can smell the fear on her. Gerard is more self-contained. “I welcome him to try,” he says.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Chris says. “I’m pretty sure he plans on succeeding whether you welcome him or not.” He turns to go, then adds, “See you later, Dad, Kate. Or . . . probably not, actually.” With that, he turns and leaves. It’s a quick set of stairs and around two corners before he can duck into the hidden alcove where Peter is waiting. He starts to say something, then sees Peter put his finger over his lips, and listens.

“ – not _my_ fucking problem,” Kate is saying, in that snippy voice she gets when she’s irritated. “I can’t believe you said he was dead when you didn’t see the body.”

“I saw the body, Katherine.” Gerard is clearly two steps away from smacking Kate into next week.

“You didn’t exactly check a pulse,” she snipes back.

“That’s because it was _on fire_ ,” Gerard retorts, and Chris feels a little snicker go through Peter. “I saw the death certificate, I even talked to the nurse who was there when he coded – ”

“Never occurred to you that she was lying, I take it, and don’t give me any bullshit about ‘hearing lies’, you know that shit isn’t exact – ”

“You know, you’re being a right bitch when you consider that I did all that to clean up _your_ mess,” Gerard snaps. “Because you somehow managed to attack the Hales and _not_ kill the most dangerous one. Because you attacked the Hales at the most obvious time for _no reason_ – ”

“I didn’t do it for no reason,” Kate says, “I did it because they knew damned well you killed Mom and they were going to execute you.”

“There was no damned proof of either of those things,” Gerard reminds her, “so don’t try to pass this off as altruism. You did it because you wanted to do it, because you had wanted to do it for years, and you finally had an excuse. So don’t try to put this at my doorstep, Katherine. It would serve you right if I left you out in the cold.”

“Then what would happen to your precious pack?” Kate asks.

“I’d find someone to be my successor, trust me,” Gerard says.

Chris takes a moment to look at Peter, worried that this discussion of the way Kate had murdered his family might be upsetting him. But when he sees Chris look at him, he gives him a little smirk and says, “This is _hilarious_.”

From Peter’s point of view, Chris supposes it would be. Watching Kate and Gerard bicker over fault and solutions, the exact opposite of everything the Hale family was. They survived because they stuck together. Kate and Gerard had no loyalty to anyone, not even to each other. It’s fun for Peter, but it’s a little sad for Chris. This is all that’s left of his family, and before long, they’ll be dead, too.

He’s startled from his darker thoughts when Peter leans in close and murmurs, “You know what I always wanted to do when we snuck in here as teenagers?”

“What?” Chris asks, and then nearly yelps because Peter’s hand is down his pants. “Peter!” he hisses. “Not now, for – for – oh, God, really?” He lets his head tilt back to hit the wall as Peter goes to his knees and pulls him out of his underwear. “You are _insane_!”

“Probably,” Peter replies, and then goes down on him in one smooth motion. Chris has to bite down on his hand to keep from making any noise. It’s been a long, long time since he’d felt anything but his own hand, and he hadn’t even had much of that. Peter’s ‘death’ had all but killed his libido; he hadn’t had sex since shortly before the Hale family had been killed. Attempts to jerk off had just reminded him of what he had lost, and even after years, that was something he had rarely indulged in.

So as much as he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, he has a feeling he’s not going to last long. He does his best not to arch into the warmth of Peter’s mouth, does his best to hold still and stay quiet. Then he makes the mistake of looking down, and seeing that Peter is looking up at him with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Fuck,” Chris hisses, and slaps a palm against the wall as he comes hard.

Peter’s laughing at him as he pulls away. “We’d best be going,” he says.

“You are the _worst_ , seriously,” Chris growls at him, as they hasten out of the house. He half-expects the guard at the front gate to try to keep him inside, but he doesn’t, and Peter behaves himself on the way back to his apartment. He’s just gotten the front door open and is contemplating the quickest way to strip Peter out of his clothes when his cell phone rings.

“Ignore it,” Peter says, biting down on his ear.

“That’s my wife,” Chris says, and Peter just laughs and, surprisingly, backs off. Chris clears his throat and picks up the phone. “Hello,” he says.

“Chris, where are you?” Victoria asks. “I mean, I know where you are, loosely, but were you planning on ever coming home? Our daughter is starting to ask some uncomfortable questions.”

Chris grimaces. If Allison figures out he’s with Peter, she’ll almost undoubtedly figure out that Peter is the murderer. He doesn’t want anyone knowing that. Even Victoria doesn’t know that, and he has no plans to tell anyone. He wishes he had prepared for this, told her about a business trip or something, but figuring out that Peter was awake had been so abrupt, he hadn’t had time. “Just tell her I’m working on keeping the family safe from whoever’s killing people,” he says, and then glowers at Peter, who’s laughing.

“How about I tell her that, and that you’ll be home for breakfast tomorrow,” Victoria says.

It isn’t a question, so Chris doesn’t try to argue. “Okay, that sounds fine. I’ll see you in the morning,” he adds, and they say good night and hang up.

“You know, I think your wife and I would really get along,” Peter says, tracing one finger down the collar of Chris’ T-shirt.

“Now there’s a terrifying thought,” Chris says with a snort, hoisting Peter up and carrying him into the bedroom.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It seems a little crazy to Stiles that after all that, they’re just sitting around the dinner table at the McCall house like any other Friday night. Derek has made a giant pot of spaghetti, along with garlic bread and a salad. Scott has brought Allison over, and everyone is in a relatively cheerful mood.

After the events of the past few days, it just seems insane to Stiles. People are being murdered, hell, they’re being murdered by Peter Hale, who isn’t comatose after all, and Chris’ sister might still try to use Scott or hurt him, and he wants to throw things across the table and start screaming for people to stop acting like things are normal.

But he doesn’t, because Peter was very clear on not telling anyone about any of this, and Stiles has definitely gotten the impression that crossing Peter Hale is an extremely bad idea. Even if he hadn’t, Cora had threatened to post his entire browser history online and hand out the address at school if he didn’t keep his trap shut.

After they’ve eaten, and Melissa is clearing the table, Derek fidgets nervously and then says, “Tom, would it be all right if I took Stiles out for ice cream?”

Tom glances up, sees the anxious look on Derek’s face, and gives a little smile. “Sure, Derek,” he says, as Scott grins and jostles Stiles. “Have him in by ten, okay?”

“Ten! Dad!” Stiles protests. “It’s a Friday night!”

“Well, eleven, then,” Tom says, amused.

Derek nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, and stands up. Stiles bounces out of his chair, grabs Derek by the elbow, and drags him out of the house.

“You know, you don’t have to ask my dad permission to leave the house with me,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, I know, I just . . . want to do this right,” Derek says.

“Oh my God, you’re adorable,” Stiles says, and Derek scowls at him. “It should be illegal to be that cute.”

“Just get in the car, Stiles,” Derek says. Stiles is glad to do so. He _loves_ Derek’s car. He’s remarked often to Scott about all the different ways he would like to have sex in or on the car. Obviously it’s not going to happen for a while, but still, the car evokes _feelings_ in him. He runs his fingers along the dashboard, and Derek smacks his hand away.

“You know, if you ever got bored with history, you could restore muscle cars for a living,” Stiles says, thinking pleasant thoughts about Derek in those tank tops he favors, knuckles smeared with grease, arms displayed to their amazing full potential.

“I like history,” Derek says, and hesitates. “But actually, I spend a lot of my time doing supernatural research and stuff.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles perks up. “C’mon, I wanna hear all about it.”

Derek’s not much of a talker, but this is one of his favorite subjects, and Stiles gets real pleasure watching him open up about something. He starts talking about the spreadsheets he’s made and data he’s collected, about the ley lines that attract so much attention to Beacon Hills. He stops halfway through a particularly technical explanation and says, “I’m sorry. This is probably really boring.”

“No, no!” Stiles says. “I mean, granted, I only understood about a third of it, but – I like seeing you like this. Really enthusiastic about something. I could listen to you talk about things like that for hours. Days.”

“I might take you up on that,” Derek says, trying to hide how he’s blushing. “It’s a lot to keep up with, and you’re pretty good at mysteries.”

“That’s my dad’s genes,” Stiles says. He feels like he’s flying. Derek pulls the car into the small parking lot of the ice cream stand. “I’ve never been here before,” Stiles says, glancing around. The place looks small and kind of dingy. It’s also been nearly half an hour in the car, and they could have gone to three other ice cream stands in that time.

“Family secret,” Derek says, getting out.

There are only four flavors, and Stiles gives Derek another suspicious look but orders a double scoop of cookies and cream. Then he understands. Their ‘double’ is about the size of a quadruple anywhere else, and the ice cream is divine. “Oh my God this is sooooo goooooood,” he moans.

Derek’s smiling over his single scoop of chocolate. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Jesus, why not? I’d eat here every night if I could.”

Derek laughs quietly. “Mom used to bring us kids here. See, my uncle Sean was kind of a health nut, so we never really had junk food in the house. When one of us had done really well at something, Mom would sneak us out and bring us here.”

Stiles licks at his ice cream cone. “It’s nice to hear you talk about them.”

“It’s . . . hard, still. Really hard. But I don’t want to forget them. Or keep them all to myself, either. I want you to know about them.”

“You know that your mom and my mom were good friends, right?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods. “And sometimes my mom would be baking things and she would say ‘have to make extra for Talia and her kids’! I guess your mom had a real sweet tooth.”

“She did, yeah,” Derek says, smiling.

“I loved baking with my mom,” Stiles says. “We used to make our own special cookies together. We’d start with a sugar cookie recipe, right? With that dough. So you know it’d come out basically cookie shaped. Then she would let me pick out two or three things from the pantry or fridge to add. So like one time we had cookies made with orange Kool-Aid powder and sprinkles, and one time they had ground up Oreos and peanut butter, and sometimes they were totally awesome but sometimes they were disgusting. And then my dad had to eat one and say it was tasty no matter how bad it was, before Mom would quietly dispose of the rest.”

Derek’s laughing quietly. “That sounds like a lot of fun. We should try that.”

“We should,” Stiles says. “That’s gonna be us. Supernatural detectives and cookie makers. We could get our own TV show.”

“I’d watch it,” Derek says.

This gets Stiles off onto a tangent about his favorite TV shows, and he eats his ice cream and flails expansively and Derek just watches him with a little smile on his face a lot of the time. They don’t talk about what’s going on until the very end of the evening. They wind up cruising around on the back roads in Derek’s Camaro, listening to loud music and not talking for a while.

When Derek pulls up in the Stilinski’s driveway at quarter to eleven, Stiles says, “Hey . . . do you think your uncle is going to be okay?”

After a long minute, Derek nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I think he’s got a plan, and . . . Peter with a plan is probably the deadliest person I know. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I think it’s going to be over soon, and that’s enough for me.”

“Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath, then leans over and gives Derek a quick peck on the cheek. Or that’s what he means to do, at least. Derek turns at the last minute and Stiles winds up bashing his forehead into Derek’s nose. “Ow, what, ow!” he says, and then he’s laughing, they’re both laughing. Derek pulls him in with one arm and gives him a hug, then presses a kiss against his forehead.

“You should come over tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll show you my books and stuff.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “It’s a date.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Do you know where I was the night my family was killed?” Peter asks, out of the blue. They’ve been lying in silence for quite some time, and Chris had started to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

Since he clearly hasn’t, Chris rolls onto his side and looks over at him. “No. I’ve always wondered why you weren’t there.”

“I was looking for you,” Peter says. His tone is flat, not even unhappy, but just toneless. “Talia and I knew that Gerard had probably killed your mother and stolen her power. I was afraid for you. Of what he would do to you. So I went to try to find you. I didn’t know you had gone out of town.”

“Jesus,” Chris says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“I’m not,” Peter says. “I’ve thought about it a lot lately. Of course for a long time there was the ‘if I’d been there, it would have been different’ feeling, and yes, I hated you for that. But that’s not true, is it? They were prepared for all of us. I would have been just as dead as my sisters. And then there would be nobody left to avenge them. So maybe it’s a good thing that I survived.”

“Of course it’s a good thing that you survived,” Chris says.

Peter glances over at him, eyebrows going up. “Do you think so?” he asks. “I’m going to kill your sister and your father before this is over, and if you tried to stop me, I would kill you, too.”

Chris is quiet. “I’m not going to try to stop you,” he says. “It needs to be done.”

Peter looks somewhat skeptical, but says nothing.

There’s another moment of quiet. “Do you know why I moved to Wyoming?” Chris finally asks.

“I assumed because you hated your father for ‘killing’ me.”

“That was part of it,” Chris says. “But it was more than that. I couldn’t stay part of the pack once he was in control. Not because of myself – I can handle myself. But I was afraid for Allison. I needed to protect my daughter, and that meant getting her the hell away from my father.”

“Because of her claim to succession?” Peter asks curiously, tucking a hand underneath his head.

“Not really,” Chris says. “I didn’t have any delusions that Gerard would pass the power to me instead of Kate, so Allison’s birth meant nothing. But just because Gerard had always openly despised the fact that Victoria had given birth to a human child. He viewed Allison as . . . as a blight on the family. Humans in his pack, it was . . . unacceptable. He was always dropping not-so-subtle hints about when I would let my mother turn her, even after I made it expressly clear that I didn’t intend to do so until Allison was old enough that I felt she could understand and make the choice herself. Once Gerard was an alpha . . . I thought he would take that choice away from her.” He’s quiet another few moments. “I understand what my father is, Peter. I understand that you’re going to kill him, and I won’t stand in your way.”

“You can kill him, if you want,” Peter says, tone still unemotional. “His power should go to you.”

“I’ll . . . think about that,” Chris says. He doesn’t want to. Not really. And it has nothing to do with his feelings about his father. He wouldn’t mind being an alpha, but he doesn’t want this pack. Tainted, corrupted by Gerard and Kate’s psychosis. It’s beyond salvaging. But if being an alpha will help him protect Victoria and Allison, he’ll accept the power with no regrets.

“I think I’m going to set them on fire,” Peter says, and Chris’ eyes snap back open. “What? It seems logical. Karmic balance, you know.”

“You can’t exactly trap them in a car,” Chris says.

“No. I’ll have to trap them in the house. I can get some mountain ash from Deaton.” Peter is still talking about this matter-of-factly. “It’ll take a little work, but I think I can pull it off. I’ll need to make sure they’re both there. And there are still two omegas left. Maybe I can set up a meeting. You could help me do that, couldn’t you?”

Chris opens his mouth to say yes. He hesitates. Thinks of his sister, screaming as the world burns down around her ears. But then he thinks of Talia, who had promised to protect his daughter with her life. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.” Peter nestles closer. “I’ll need a few days to get some supplies.”

“It still might not kill them,” Chris says. “They’re alphas.”

“No,” Peter says, “but what I do to them afterwards will.”

Chris nods and says nothing, because there’s nothing he can say to that.

“I mean it about Gerard, though,” Peter says. “Think about it.”

“All right,” Chris says. “I’ll think about it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous music plays*

 

The alarm goes off at seven AM, and Chris groans, rolling over. He had been up far too late. He’s glad that he doesn’t suffer the same sort of soreness or stiffness that a human does after a night of exertion. There had been a _lot_ of exertion. So much so that Peter barely twitches when the alarm goes off. “I wore you out proper,” Chris says, proud of himself, and leans down to drop a kiss on Peter’s forehead.

Peter stirs sleepily at this, but still doesn’t really wake. Chris gets out of bed and heads for the shower. When he comes out, Peter’s awake, although still in bed. The hunter’s hand comes up and grabs Chris by the hem of his shirt, towing him back onto the bed, and they kiss for several minutes. “I have to get going,” Chris says. “Breakfast with Allison.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says, kissing him again. “And then you’ll come right back here, yes?”

“Yes,” Chris says against his mouth.

“Good.” Peter rolls over and closes his eyes, apparently going back to sleep. Chris presses another kiss into the crown of his head, and leaves the safe house. He double checks the lock and does a quick sweep of the perimeter, just to be on the safe side. Peter can undoubtedly take care of himself, but there’s no point in inviting trouble. He doesn’t think they were followed, or that the safe house could be identified from the pictures he gave Kate and Gerard, but there’s always a chance.

It’s Saturday morning, but both Victoria and Allison are early risers, so they’re up by the time he gets there, with a box of donuts and a gallon of hot coffee. Surprisingly, Scott is there too, sitting at the kitchen table looking sleepy-eyed and messy-haired.

“He didn’t stay the night, did he?” Chris greets his family, and gets two narrow-eyed stares from the women in his life and one terrified, pole-axed look from Scott.

“No,” Victoria says, still glaring at him. It’s a glare that seems to simultaneously say ‘do you think I would allow that’ and ‘do you think we could stop our daughter from having sex with this young man if she was determined enough’. “Allison wanted to go on a morning run, but given that the area might not be safe, Scott decided to come accompany her.” ‘Which you would know, if you had been here’ is equally unspoken but clearly meant.

“Sorry,” Chris says, and then adds, “Sorry,” to both of the teenagers. Scott relaxes a little, since he’s not about to die. He puts the donuts down on the table and says to Allison, “To compensate for the run.”

Allison laughs, mellowing out, and takes a donut. Chris is still giving Scott the side eye, but decides that any teenaged boy who can oust himself from bed at seven AM on a Saturday to keep his girlfriend safe on her morning run is probably worth his respect.

“So what’s going on?” Allison asks, and Chris feigns confusion. “Dad. Come on. We know that you went over to the McCall house, that you talked to Derek and argued with Cora and then took off abruptly. That was _Thursday_. You’ve been MIA for over thirty-six hours. Where did you go?”

Chris lets out a breath. “I went to confirm some suspicions. They’ve been confirmed, and I’m taking care of it.”

“But Dad – ”

“Allison, no,” Chris says, firmly. “I understand that Scott is unfortunately tied up in this, because he got turned by this rogue alpha. But people have _died_ because of what’s going on in this town. I don’t want either of you involved any more than you have to be. Arrangements are being made to take care of things.”

Allison fidgets and starts tearing her donut to pieces. “I’m worried about you, too, you know.”

Chris leans over and kisses her hair. “I’m going to be fine, Allison.” Then he changes the subject, asking if Cora and Derek are okay, since he knows they were upset by their chat. The two Hales have remained good to their word and not said anything to Scott about their uncle’s involvement. That’s good. He starts to relax and eat his breakfast with a smile.

About an hour later, the two teenagers head up to Allison’s room to watch a movie. Chris’ phone beeps to indicate an incoming text, and he glances at it. Peter has texted him asking him to pick some things up. Chris doesn’t know much about arson, but he makes a mental note to pay in cash so these purchases can’t be traced back to him.

Victoria is quietly washing dishes in the sink. She shuts off the water and turns to face him. “Peter’s awake, isn’t he.”

Chris’ head jerks around, but he sees the look on her face and realizes that there’s no point in obfuscating. He nods. “Yes.”

“For how long?” Victoria asks.

“Shortly after I came back the first time. He thinks my visit triggered something in his mind that . . . brought him back. But I didn’t actually realize until after I talked to the others on Thursday.”

“And he’s the one killing the omegas?”

Chris nods. “It’ll be over soon.”

“Are you going to be the alpha?” Victoria asks.

“I don’t know yet, Vicky. I haven’t decided. He’ll let me kill Gerard, help me do it, if I want to. I don’t want this power, this pack . . . but I need you and Allison safe. And I need Peter safe, too.”

“Then you should do it,” Victoria says, refilling his mug of coffee. “That man took everything from you. It’s time you stood up and took some things back.”

Chris looks up at her, then nods. “You’re okay with that?”

“There’s no one better,” she says.

He reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thanks.” He takes a sip of his coffee and then says, “How did you know? About Peter?”

“Your face,” she says, as if this should be obvious. “I haven’t seen you smile like that in a really long time.”

“You do know me better than anyone,” Chris says. He’s quiet for a few minutes as Victoria goes back to the dishes. “Vicky. When this is done . . . I want Peter here, with me. You’re my best friend, and I love our daughter more than words can say. But Peter . . . I need him in my life. Not as a fuckbuddy, not on the side like I kept him for so long. It wasn’t fair to him . . . and it wasn’t fair to me, either. I’m not going to make you leave, although I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I’d be happy if you stayed, as my friend and the mother of our child. But Peter’s lost everything, and I want to give him a home here.”

Victoria glances over her shoulder and says, “Well, I hope he’s better at reading laundry tags than you are. He’ll have to do his share of the chores.”

Chris lets out a choked little laugh. He stands up and hugs her from behind, pressing a kiss into the back of her neck. “You’re okay with it? With him being here?”

“I’m okay with you being happy,” she says. “Chris, you gave me my life back when other people had tried to take it from me. You’ve given me and our daughter a good life. I meant what I said. It’s time you took some things for yourself.”

“Thank you.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck and hugs her as hard as he can. “Thank you, Vicky. It means the world to me.”

When he lets her go, she turns around and gives him a light kiss on the mouth. “Go take care of this, Chris. Get it done.”

He nods. “I will.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So what do you think your dad is up to?” Scott asks, as Allison curls up next to him and tucks her head against his chest. The TV is on, but neither of them are really watching it.

“I don’t know,” Allison says. “I’m worried about him, but . . . he actually seems to be a lot better today than he has been. So I guess something good happened. I just wish I knew what it was.”

“Well, he talked with Derek and Cora, right?” Scott says. “And we know that Cora accused him of betraying her family and getting them killed. But we also know your dad didn’t do that, obviously, so maybe Derek at least said something to make him feel better about it.”

“Derek seems nice enough, but not really . . . reassuring,” Allison says, somewhat skeptically.

“True,” Scott says, and he can’t help but laugh. “I don’t know, though. He actually seemed pretty relaxed at dinner last night, too, and he actually went out on a date with Stiles, freakin’ _finally_ , so maybe you’re right. Maybe Chris and Derek talked it out and they both felt better afterwards. I just wish I _knew_.”

Allison sits up. “Still worried about the alpha, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Scott says. “I mean . . . they could still come kick my ass any time. And I know that I’m getting better at controlling it and I know that your dad said he would take care of it, but I’m just . . . I used to have this nice, normal life, you know? I was kind of a loser, but I had a great family and things were cool. Now everything’s gotten really . . . weird. And I don’t know how to handle it. I guess that’s a problem you don’t have, huh? Since you grew up with all this.”

“I always knew about werewolves,” Allison says, “but this is really the first time I’ve had friends to worry about. So it’s a little bit the same for me.” She fidgets for a minute, then brightens. “Maybe we could talk to my aunt.”

“Kate?” Scott says.

“Yeah. I mean, my dad doesn’t get along with _his_ dad, so there’s a limit to how much he’s going to know about the big picture. But Aunt Kate is like my grandfather’s right hand man. I’m sure she knows what’s going on. Maybe she can help us figure out who the alpha is and make sure you’re safe.”

“That’s a good idea,” Scott says. “Okay, let’s talk to her.”

“I’ll give her a call,” Allison says, and takes out her phone. A few minutes later, she says, “Hi, Kate! . . . really great, how are you? . . . listen, I was wondering, do you have some free time today? I wanted to talk with you. Pack stuff. . . . noooooo, I’m not ready for the bite yet. It’s about my boyfriend. Okay . . . sure! Okay, see you then.” She tucks away her phone and hops off the bed. “She says she’ll be over in a bit. Mom’s going out to do some shopping, so we’ll have privacy. You want to grab a snack?”

It’s been hours since the donuts, so Scott says sure, and the two of them head downstairs. They’ve just finished putting together some sandwiches when the front door opens and Kate shouts, “Yoohoo, I’m here!”

“Hi, Kate!” Allison calls back, and a few moments later, Kate walks into the kitchen.

Scott immediately goes stiff. “It’s – you’re – ”

“What is it, Scott?” Allison asks.

“You’re her,” Scott blurts out. “You’re the alpha. My alpha.”

Allison’s eyes go wide. She jerks around to look at her aunt. “Kate, do you – ”

“Oh, honey,” Kate says, shaking her head. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s not exactly the traditional sort of date, but Stiles has genuinely enjoyed the hell out of his afternoon with Derek so far. He had come over around lunch time and they had been going over books of mythological creatures, maps, crime statistics. Cora had come with him, mainly so she doesn’t have to sit around the house by herself all day on a Saturday, but she’s keeping her distance, letting Stiles and Derek spend time together.

“So here’s something interesting,” Stiles says, looking up from some sheets of paper. “So, about twenty-three hundred people are reported missing every day. It comes up to roughly nine hundred thousand a year. But obviously there are a lot of people in the USA, that’s something like point zero zero two percent of the population.”

“Okay,” Derek says, wondering where he’s going with this.

“So Beacon Hills has about thirty thousand people in it. By national standards, that means we’d have sixty missing persons cases per year. But this county has over ten _times_ that.”

Derek nods silently. It doesn’t surprise him.

“Also, nationally, anywhere between seventy and ninety percent of missing persons are children, right? Because they’re more likely to get kidnapped and stuff. But in Beacon Hills, it’s much lower. Fifty percent of the people who are reported missing are adults. And not druggies or elderly people with Alzheimer’s, either. People in Beacon Hills have a tendency to disappear.”

“Okay. What’s your point?”

“The patterns.” Stiles gestures to a graph on the screen of his laptop and starts tracing the line with his finger. “This is up until the Hale family moved here about twenty years ago. It’s relatively stable, right? At about five times the national average. But then it drops dramatically. By the time your family had been here three years, we were only about twice the national average, instead of ten times. Your family really made a difference here, Der.”

Derek feels a smile touch his lips. “That’s nice. But it must have spiked afterwards, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That’s when it got all the way up to ten times the average. So I guess that was a result of both your family being gone, and a real asshole who didn’t care about people being in charge of the Argent pack. Because it wasn’t _as_ low when Eloise Argent was in charge there, but it was a lot lower than it was for the three years after your family was killed.”

“Three years?” Derek asks, looking up at the chart again. “Not six?”

“No, only three,” Stiles says. “Then it starts to drop again. It’s a slower slope, but it’s been dropping steadily for the last three years.” He sits down across from Derek on the bed, so their knees are bumping. “And that must be because of you. Because you started doing the hunter stuff again, even if it was only research and calling in a hired gun now and then.”

That hesitant smile comes back. “Really? You think so?”

“Hey, numbers don’t lie,” Stiles says, gesturing to the little line graph he’d created from the data. “Numbers are as close as we get to the handwriting of God.”

“Really?” Derek says. “You’re quoting Pacific Rim at me?”

“That movie was awesome!”

“That movie was ridiculous,” Derek says, smirking. “So I can see why you would like it.”

Stiles beams at him and flops into his lap. “You like me for being ridiculous,” he says, grinning up at Derek. Derek just shakes his head and gives a snort of laughter. Then Stiles springs back upwards. “Oh hey! What time is it? Is it two o’clock yet?”

“Uh, quarter past,” Derek says. “Why?”

“Well, because that new Godzilla movie is out and I thought you might want to go. There’s a show at three. You game?”

“It’s probably terrible,” Derek says.

“I know,” Stiles says cheerfully. Then a shadow passes over his face. “Huh, that’s weird, though. I thought Scott would be home by now. He was going to come with us. I mean, not that I invited him along on our date, but I just – he wanted to see it, and we’ll drag Cora along, so I thought – ”

“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts, feeling his stomach go tight with nerves. “Why don’t you try calling him?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that,” Stiles says, fumbling for his phone. He dials Scott. It rings and rings and goes to voice mail. “He’s not picking up,” he says, and tries Allison instead. It gets the same result. He tries Scott a second time, and still gets nothing. “What do you think is going on?” he asks, trying to stay calm. He leans into the hallway and shouts for Cora, who comes jogging up the stairs.

“Why don’t you try the Argent house number?” she says, when Stiles relays the situation.

“I don’t know it,” Stiles says. “I think it’s unlisted.”

“Maybe we can look up where he is,” Derek says. “Can you do that with his phone’s GPS?”

“You’d need to know his user name and password,” Cora points out.

Stiles gives a snort. “Okay, that’s fucking easy,” he says, and starts typing on his laptop again.

“Do you . . .” Derek suddenly looks pained. “Let me guess. His username is ‘Allison’ and his password is also Allison.”

“Got it in one,” Stiles says, and Derek shakes his head. He cranes over Stiles’ shoulder anxiously as he continues typing. A few minutes later, he has a map pulled up with a pulsing red dot on it. “Huh. He’s out in the middle of the woods. I don’t know where . . .” He feels Derek stiffen behind him and gets it. “That’s your old house, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles thinks about this. Then he says, “Call Scott.”

“What? Why? He didn’t pick up.”

“He didn’t pick up when I called, but I bet someone will pick up if you do.” Stiles looks up. “It’s gotta be Kate, right? Allison loves her aunt, she could have lured them somewhere. If Kate sees your name on the caller ID, she’ll pick up. She’ll want to taunt you. Maybe we can find out what’s going on, what she’s after.”

“Shouldn’t we just go?” Cora snaps.

“And do _what_?” Stiles asks. “She’s an alpha werewolf. We’re three teenagers. You’re the only one who knows how to fight at all. We can’t take on an alpha.”

Their argument doesn’t really matter, because Derek is already taking out his phone to call Scott. But he puts it on speaker. It rings twice, and then a voice picks up, a little on the cautious side. “Hello?”

“Kate,” Derek chokes out.

“Hey, sweetie!” The voice changes from cautious to sweetness and light. “Long time! I was just asking Scott here how you’re doing. Cute kid, huh?”

Derek tries to say something, but his throat has closed over. Cora’s the one who snaps, “You’d better not touch our fucking brother, you bitch. I’ll cut your God damned throat!”

“Oh, really?” Kate is laughing. “Don’t worry. I don’t have any plans to hurt these two lovebirds. Not unless things aren’t done to my satisfaction.”

“What do you want, Kate?” Derek asks.

“How about a date?” Kate asks, laughing. Stiles reaches over and grabs the phone, smacking the end button with prejudice.

“Wha – ” Derek starts.

“We found out what we needed to know. If she’s keeping them alive, it’s because she’s using them as bait for Peter. There can’t be any other reason. We don’t have Peter’s number, so I’m calling Chris.” Stiles pulls the number up on his phone and hits send. It rings and goes to voice mail. “Fuck.”

“We can’t just sit here,” Cora says.

Stiles doesn’t like it, but he nods and gets to his feet. “Let’s go.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris is trying to coax Peter to stop doing arson research long enough to fall into bed with him when his phone rings. He glances down at it and sees that it’s Kate. Peter look over at it, too, and frowns. After a moment of indecision, Chris picks up, “What do you want, Kate?”

“Hey, I’m sending you some pictures!” Kate says, in her usual vivacious tone. “Call me back when you’ve looked at them, okay?”

“Kate, what – ” Chris starts, but she’s already hung up. He looks over at Peter and is about to say something, when his phone chirps to indicate that he’s received the pictures. He taps on the screen and then nearly drops the phone. The first photograph is of Allison. She’s been tied to a tree and gagged with a white scarf, and has obviously been crying. “Jesus,” Chris blurts out.

Peter takes the phone. Chris can barely look as he slides to the next picture. That one is of Scott. Unlike Allison, he’s bruised and bloody, with a cut over his eye and a split lip. He’s tied up as well, but differently; rather than being tied to something, he’s lying on his side with his hands and ankles trussed up behind his back.

“That _bitch_ ,” Peter snarls, halfway out of his chair.

Chris grabs him by the wrist before he can do something rash. “Wait. Let’s – ” He takes a deep breath, forces air into his lungs. “Let’s see what she wants.”

“We know what she wants,” Peter says, but he waits.

Chris’ hands are trembling slightly as he hits the buttons to call her back. “Where is my daughter?” he greets her.

“She’s fine, she’s with me,” Kate says. “You know I’d hate to hurt her, Chris. I love Allison! She’s my BFF! I don’t want to hurt her. So don’t make me.”

“You’ve got her tied to a fucking tree, I think your days of being BFFs are over,” Chris growls. “Now tell me where my daughter is.”

“Look, here’s how this is going to work,” Kate says, dropping the pleasant tone from her voice and becoming instantly brisk and matter-of-fact. “You’re going to bring Peter Hale to me. I know he’s with you. You were probably already rounding second, am I right? And I know that he doesn’t give a shit about your daughter, so he won’t come along willingly, but I’m pretty sure you can take him. Your daughter’s life is on the line, so you’d _better_ be able to take him.”

“Kate,” Chris says slowly, “I don’t – ”

“Once you bring him here, to me, I’ll let Allison and Scott go. Simple as that.”

“Kate, if you touch one hair on her head – ”

There’s a click. Kate has hung up. Chris stands there for a moment in silence. Then Peter walks away from him, over to the table on the other side of the room where he’s been starting to put his things together. He straps on a thigh holster, checks the clip in one of his guns, and slides it in. Then he starts strapping his arm sheathes for his knives on.

“Peter, wait,” Chris says, trying to calm down long enough to think. “We can’t just run into her trap. We need a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Peter says. “I’m going to shoot her until she’s a bloody puddle on the floor. And then I’m going to set her body on fire.”

“God damn it, it won’t be that easy and you know it,” Chris says. “How do you even know where she’ll be?”

“We both know where she is,” Peter says. “She’s a sadist. She’s at the old house. Where the hell else would she be?” He slides the knives into their sheaths and pushes his hair out of his face in one quick motion. “She’s forgotten what a good sniper I am, and she’s going to regret it.”

“Peter, _stop_.” Chris grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around. He takes a deep breath, watching Peter as he fights down the rage. “We need to stay calm, we need to have a plan. We’re not alone in this. We can get help.”

“You’re wrong there,” Peter says. “I _am_ alone. I’m going alone. Because if you come with me, Gerard will find a way to make you choose between me and Allison. And I’m not going to watch you make that choice.”

Chris sees it coming just a second too late to block, and Peter jams the taser into his side and pulls the trigger. His body bows and spasms, and then he collapses to the floor, teeth clenched and still shaking.

Peter leans over him and takes the car keys out of Chris’ pocket. Then he rolls Chris onto his side, in recovery position, before stepping over him and heading towards the door. He half-turns and says, “I told you, Christopher. There’s no happy ending in this for us.”

With that, he’s gone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes aren't really my forte but I tried to make this chapter as exciting as possible! =D

Chris waves off the helpful lady who’s trying to ask what his business is, slamming his way into the sheriff’s office and then closing the door behind him. Tom is just getting off a phone call, and he’s got his gun up and aimed before he realizes who just made an entrance. “Jesus, Chris,” he says. “I nearly shot you – ”

“I need your help,” Chris says, trying to catch his breath. He’s going to kill Peter for this; he had to run all the way to the sheriff’s station. “Come with me. We’ll need to take your car.”

“What?” Tom asks, blinking.

“Tom, there’s no time, it’s Allison – ”

“What about Allison?”

“She – she’s with her aunt. But there’s – there’s a problem. Peter – ”

“Oh, no, you are _not_ going to stand in this office and tell me that something’s happened to Peter after _you_ took him out of the nursing home that I kept him safe in – ”

“Damn it, Tom, it’s not like that – ”

“Then what is it like?” Tom shouts, then lowers his voice. “For God’s sake, Chris. I’m not taking one step out of this office until you tell me what me what the _hell_ is going on, is that – ” His voice stutters to a halt. Chris has looked up and started to shift. His eyes gleam gold as his teeth lengthen, as the claws come out of his hands and his ears start to grow. “Holy . . .”

“I’m a werewolf,” Chris says. It’s clear at this point that explaining, at least the basics, will be faster than continuing to argue. “I’m from a family of werewolves, a pack. The Hale family were part of – let’s say they were supernatural law enforcement, that’s simplistic but it works. Our two families co-existed until there was a coup inside my pack and my father killed my mother and seized power from her. Okay?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tom says, struggling to keep up.

“Talia and Peter knew he had done it, so my sister Kate hired a bunch of low-level thugs to help her and then attacked the Hale house. The only reason Peter wasn’t killed is because he wasn’t there. Afterwards, he set out to hunt the omegas down, but my father stepped in to clean up Kate’s mess and tried to have him assassinated. Thanks to you, he survived. Still with me?”

“Yeah, I . . .”

“That was six years ago. When I came back to town, something – something I said or did triggered something inside Peter and he came out of his catatonic state.”

“Jesus, he _did_?” Tom’s voice rose again. “That – he never said anything to – ”

“Peter knew he was in danger, he knew that if anyone knew he was alive, Kate or Gerard would come finish the job. So he pretended to remain catatonic and he started hunting down the people who had killed his family. That’s what’s been going on lately. That’s the murderer you’ve been looking for. It’s Peter.”

Tom let out a breath. “Okay. So . . .”

“When I realized Peter was awake and that Peter was killing people, I took him out of the nursing home and brought him to a safe house because I knew it was only a matter of time before Kate or my father figured it out. But something happened today. I don’t know what. Kate has my daughter, Tom, and she has Scott. She’s a werewolf, she’s stronger than either of them. She’s holding them hostage to get me to bring Peter to her. When Peter found out, he – he took off. He said he was going to go kill her, but – he’s not strong enough to do this on his own. He wants to be, thinks he is, but – if Allison gets hurt, I – ”

“Come on.” Tom has already holstered his gun and grabbed his keys. “You can explain the rest on the way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It goes about as well as Stiles would have expected.

Derek has some tricks up his sleeve. He makes them all splash on this weird non-perfume that he says will hide their scents. They creep up towards the house as quietly as they can. Cora and Derek both move like stealthy cats. Stiles somehow manages to step on every twig and crunchy leaf. After Cora winces for the third time, he starts thinking about staying behind.

But then it’s too late, because Derek waves them behind this fallen log that’s half rotten, and they can see into the clearing. Allison is tied to a tree and Scott is lying on the ground beside her. He looks unconscious. It takes all of Stiles’ self-control not to just run into the clearing. He thinks about calling his father, but then remembers the alpha at the school and changes his mind. His father won’t be able to do anything about Kate.

The thing is, he doesn’t see Kate anywhere. He sees an old, balding man, that he presumes is Gerard. But he doesn’t see Kate. He watches the clearing for another moment and then thinks, _she’s right behind us, isn’t she_ – and starts to turn just in time to see Kate’s wicked smile.

Cora swings around at the last second and squeezes a shot off. The sound of it, less than a foot from Stiles, makes him flinch away. Kate catches the bullet in the shoulder, but it doesn’t even slow her down. She grabs Cora and _throws_ her, with so much force that she goes skidding into the clearing, nearly twenty feet away. She rolls, fetches up against a tree hard, and stops moving.

“Cora!” Derek is on his feet now, but Kate swats him away like he’s a pesky fly. The next thing Stiles knows, Kate’s got him by the arm and has it twisted around his back, and she’s bounding back into the clearing with him in tow while he shouts protests and gives yelps of pain.

“Hey, Dad, check it out!” Kate says, as Stiles struggles to get free. “More hostages!” She glances around as Cora moans and tries to push herself up to her feet, as Derek staggers into the clearing. “Thanks for coming, it’s really sweet of you guys. Now if we need to kill a hostage or two, to show Peter we mean business, we’ve got some spares!”

“Fuck you!” Stiles retorts, trying to twist free.

“Honey, hush,” Kate says, ducking underneath his arm and grabbing him by the throat instead. He gives a garbled noise of pain.

“Kate, don’t!” Derek’s on his feet now. “Don’t – don’t hurt him.”

Kate looks between the two of them, takes in the look on Derek’s face, the scent of him, and Stiles knows they have to smell like each other because he’s spent the last two hours in Derek’s lap, and her face lights up like it’s Christmas. “Der-bear! Do you have a boyfriend? That’s so awesome, sweetie. Good for you. I’m not really good at sharing, though . . .”

“Don’t,” Derek says. “Just – just don’t, okay?”

“I mean, didn’t you say we were going to be together forever?” Kate asks, and a shudder goes through Derek. “I distinctly remember you saying that, the last time we saw each other. So I don’t know if there’d be room in our relationship for anybody else.” She looks Stiles up and down while he pulls at her fingers, feet kicking for purchase. “So what’s it about this little spaz that you like so much? I’m a little curious about what you see in him. Maybe I’ll take him home and find out. He’s a little young for me, but . . .” Her eyes gleam wickedly. “I’ve had younger.”

“You, don’t you dare touch him, don’t you,” Derek says, the words just falling out of his mouth without permission. Stiles’ face is going from red to purple.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kate says. “He’s not my type. I’d rather have you all to myse – ”

There’s a sharp crack and Kate’s body jerks backwards. For the briefest of moments, her hand tightens on Stiles’ throat unbearably. Then she lets him go, collapsing downwards onto the ground. Stiles tries to scramble upwards, but isn’t able, and winds up coughing and retching, trying to get his wind back. Derek is crouching over him, trying to make sure his windpipe isn’t broken.

Kate is back on her feet, apparently only slowed down by the bullet that had been put in her thigh. She wheels around towards where it came from, and another one catches her in the chest, and she staggers back and lands hard.

Peter Hale walks into the clearing, holding a rifle in one hand that he casually tosses aside.

“You okay?” he asks Derek, barely glancing at him, and Derek nods. “Good,” Peter says, and takes out a handgun instead.

He’s got the gun trained on Kate and is about to fire when someone crashes into him from the side. He was so focused on Kate that he never saw it coming, and it takes everyone a moment to figure out that it’s Scott. He’s shifted, snarling and clawing at Peter. The hunter manages to fling him off, but he just rolls to his feet and starts forward again. Peter’s gun is up and aimed, but Derek shouts, “Don’t hurt him!” and ducks between the two.

“Derek,” Peter says, his gun steady, “if you can’t stop him, I’ll have to put him down.”

Stiles’ gaze flashes over to where Scott had been tied up. The ropes are lying on the ground, but they’re cut neatly. Someone, presumably Gerard, let him go. Allison is gone, too. He doesn’t see Cora anywhere. And Scott is stalking forward, growling low in his throat. But Stiles knows that he’s fighting, that he’s struggling against Kate’s control, simply because he hasn’t tackled Peter again.

Derek just gives a tense nod, taking a step forward. “Scott,” he says. “Scott, it’s me, it’s Derek. You have to – have to get this under control, okay?”

Scott’s growl deepens and becomes louder. His gaze flashes gold and trains on Peter and his gun.

“It’s okay, Scott,” Derek says. Stiles wants to chime in, but all he can manage is a hoarse whisper. He’ll have to let Derek handle this. The older man is starting forward with both hands raised in a gesture of placation. “It’s okay. You’re okay, you can do this. I know you can, because you – you’re my brother, and you’re stronger than this. Just breathe. Just breathe, Scott, you’re okay.”

Scott shakes his head a little, like he’s coming up from underwater. “I – I can’t – ”

“Yeah, you can, you’re doing great, just – just stay calm, stay focused. You don’t have to do what she tells you.” Derek’s only a few feet from Scott now, and the teenager looks up, his eyes back to brown. “Good, that’s good, Scott. You’re okay.” Derek reaches out and carefully draws Scott into an embrace. Scott half-collapses against him, his knees trembling, and Derek hugs him tightly. “You’re okay, Scott.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kate says in disgust. She’s made it back onto her feet at this point, wiping blood off the corner of her mouth and leaving a smear. “You two are gonna make me puke – ” she starts, and that’s when Cora drops out of the tree and jams a knife into her throat. Kate chokes and goes to one knee. Cora twists the knife on the way out and blood goes _everywhere_ , even as Kate is throwing her off. Peter raises his gun and fires twice more, but Kate has ducked around a tree. A bare moment later, she’s flung back into the clearing. She lands hard on her back, and moments later Chris is there, pinning her to the ground. She tries to get up, but the bullets and the knife wound have weakened her, and she struggles futilely against his grip.

“Shit,” Peter snarls. “I told you not to – ”

“And I told you that you’re _not alone_ – ”

“No, he’s right,” Gerard says, emerging into the clearing with a smile on his face and Allison held up like a shield in front of him. One hand is holding her shoulder like a vise, and the other is covering her mouth. “You shouldn’t have come, Chris. It would’ve been much easier if you hadn’t.”

Chris goes still, though he doesn’t let up the pressure on Kate. “If you hurt her – ”

“Well, that’s not up to me,” Gerard says. “That’s up to Peter.” He gives the hunter a nod. “Been a long time.”

“That it has,” Peter says. His gun is still up. “These rounds have very good penetration, I’ll have you know.”

“That a fact?” Gerard asks. “Are you going to shoot through her? You talk big, but I don’t think you will. I think you know that this little girl is what Chris loves more than anything in the world. Are you willing to kill her, right in front of him?”

Peter’s gun doesn’t waver. But he doesn’t fire, either.

“I think we can settle this easily,” Gerard says. “I only need you to do one thing for me, Peter, and then the kids can live, Chris can go home to his wife, everything will be okay. Just turn that gun of yours around, and pull the trigger.”

“You want me to kill myself,” Peter says flatly.

“Well, we’re at a bit of an impasse otherwise,” Gerard says. “I can’t do it myself, because I’d have to let go of Allison. And I doubt Chris is going to let Kate up. I could ask Chris to do it for me, but my son is a gutless coward and I don’t want to waste another minute of my time on him. You, though. You’ve got the stones to do it, don’t you? To end this tragic farce that you call a life?

“Really, I’m being kinder than I need to be,” Gerard continues. “It would be pretty entertaining to force Chris to kill you by making his daughter scream. But I don’t really think it’s necessary. I prefer for things to be neat and clean. So just pull the trigger on yourself, Peter. After all, everyone’s gotten along just fine without you. The kids don’t need or want you. They’ve made a family without you, found a better father than you could ever be for them.”

“Shut up,” Peter says between clenched teeth.

Gerard sees him wavering, his hands starting to tremble, and goes for the killing blow. “And Chris, well, Chris. You and Chris. How do you think that’s going to work out long-term? You think you’re going to move in with him and his wife and daughter, and they’ll be okay with that? Just adopt you into their family as Chris’ on-the-side sometimes hook-up? Is that how you think it’s going to work?”

“Shut up!”

“You think he’s ever going to want someone who looks like you? Hell, he never gave you what you wanted even when you were a handsome young man. You think you’re going to get it now? You’re not what’s important to him. He’s proven that over and over again. My son doesn’t love you, Peter. He’s never loved you and he never will. So why don’t you just get it over with?”

From the woods, there’s a sound like an owl.

Peter’s eyes go wide. He knows that noise. It means ‘I’m in position’.

Allison bites down hard on Gerard’s hand and gets an elbow back into his eye socket. He grunts a little in pain but holds on. But it gives her enough room to slide down a little, bend, collapse, give a clear shot.

The bullet catches Gerard in the throat and he staggers. It’s an _excellent_ shot, Peter notes absently, and he has literally no idea where it came from because everyone he knows who would be capable of such a thing is either dead or in the clearing with him. He’s still standing there, frozen, when Chris takes Gerard in a tackle. Allison rolls away, curling herself into a ball in a defensive move. Scott pulls out of Derek’s arms and all but throws himself on top of her to protect her.

Gerard is laughing, a wheezing, pained sort of laughter as Chris gets him pinned down. “You’re not going to kill me, Chris,” he says. “You don’t want this power. You’ve never wanted it.”

“I don’t want _your_ power,” Chris corrects. “I want my mother’s, and my grandmother’s. I want _mine_.”

His claws sink down into Gerard’s throat, tearing it wide open. Blood gushes out of the wound, but Chris doesn’t stop there. He gets a hand under Gerard’s chin, sinks his claws in, and with a grunt of effort, tears his head off completely.

Peter’s still standing there, frozen, as Chris looks up, his eyes shining a brilliant crimson. “I told you that you’re _not alone_ , you piece of shit,” he growls.

“You . . . you taught her our bird calls,” Peter says, and tears start down his cheeks.

“I didn’t want to forget them,” Chris replies. It looks like he might say more, but then Allison throws herself into her father’s arms, oblivious of all the blood, with a sob of, “Daddy!” Chris hugs her tightly, pressing a kiss into the top of her head. And Peter still just stands there. But he looks up as the word is echoed a moment later.

“Dad!” Stiles rasps, as Tom walks into the clearing, still holding his sidearm. “What are you – how did you – ”

“Are you all right?” his father demands, holstering the gun so he can grab Stiles by both shoulders.

“Yeah, I – I’m okay, Kate strangled me a little but Peter shot her, got her to let me go – ”

Everyone startles as there’s another gun shot. Chris’ head jerks around to see that Kate had gotten back to her feet and had slowly been backing away, and Peter’s got his gun raised again. Kate’s on her back, hands held up in front of her in surrender. Peter walks over with his gun at the ready.

“Killing me won’t bring your family back,” Kate chokes out.

“No, it won’t,” Peter agrees. “But that was never what this was about.”

With that, he pulls the trigger again. Kate’s body jerks and then goes still. Allison hides her face in her father’s shoulder. Chris presses his forehead against the top of her head so he won’t have to watch either. Peter continues firing until the gun clicks dry. He doesn’t even stop there, but ejects the empty clip, slams another one in, and empties that one, too. Then he slowly lays the gun down on the ground. He turns to Tom and offers his wrists to the man, waiting.

Tom stares hard at him for a minute before waving him off. “You saved my son’s life,” he says. “Let’s call it even.”

Peter nods a little, then turns and walks away. Chris hesitates for a bare moment before Allison looks up at him and then starts to pull out of his arms. “You should go to him, Dad,” she says. “I’m okay.”

“Are you – ” Chris starts, but Allison is already leaning over Scott, checking on him. Chris gets to his feet and follows Peter. His gait has already started to falter, and he’s staggering. Chris grabs him and slowly sinks to the ground with him. Peter’s crying now, harsh, wracking sobs that shake his entire body. There’s nothing that will help, so Chris just holds him, embraces him as hard as he can.

Before he can think of anything to say, Derek and Cora are there, too, crowding around on either side of him. “It wasn’t true, Uncle Peter,” Cora whispers fiercely, wrapping her arms around him. “We love you, okay? We’ve missed you – ”

Her voice cracks, and it’s Derek who finishes her sentence for her. “We’ve missed you so much,” he says, resting his forehead against Peter’s shoulder.  They sit like that for a long time.

Gradually, the worst of it passes. Peter takes in a few shuddering breaths, then looks up at Chris and asks hoarsely, “Take me home?”

Chris nods and gets him on his feet. They can worry about everything else later. Peter staggers a little, and Chris just hoists him up in a reverse piggy back, like they’re young again. Peter laughs quietly, hooks his ankles behind Chris’ back, and rests his forehead against Chris’ shoulder. “Allison?” Chris asks, glancing over at her.

She leans over and gives Scott a kiss. They confer quietly for a moment, and then she stands up and walks over to her father. She nudges him affectionately, since his arms are full, and then they start walking away.

Tom shakes his head a little and frowns at his son. “We should maybe take you to a doctor – ”

“No, Dad, I’m fine, seriously,” Stiles says, and looks at Kate and Gerard’s bodies. “Jesus. What do we do?”

“I know some people who can take care of it,” Derek says quietly, taking out his phone. He hits a few buttons and then takes a step away, facing into the forest so he doesn’t have to look at them. “Hey, Dominic – yeah, good, you? Thanks . . . so I’ve got a couple bodies here. Yeah, the Argent pack finally imploded. No, it’s taken care of except for this . . . okay. Yeah, okay. Thanks. . . . what’s that? Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll give you the details later.”

They say goodbye and hang up. Tom shakes his head and says wearily, “I don’t know what to say about the fact that you have body disposal services on speed dial.”

“Every hunter has body disposal services on speed dial,” Derek says, with a wry smile. He walks over to Cora and gives her a hand up. “Nice move, sis.”

“Been practicing that one,” she says, cleaning her knife and tucking it away.

Tom reaches out and ruffles her hair with a fond expression. He hooks an arm around Scott’s shoulder and pulls him in, too, so they can have a group hug. “You did good. All of you. That being said, you’re all grounded.”

“Aw, man,” Stiles whines. “But Dad – ”

“No buts!” Tom says. “You’ve been lying and keeping secrets _and_ snooping through my case files after I specifically told you not to. And all of you charged off into danger today – Scott, you’re exempt from this one – instead of calling me. So. Cora, you’re grounded for one week, for what happened today, and Stiles, you’re grounded for two. No phones, no computer games, no video games. Scott, I’ll let Melissa decide how long to ground you for lying.”

Scott moans. “She’s even more strict than you are.”

“Good for her.”

“What about me?” Derek asks.

“You’re twenty-one, Derek. I can’t ground you. Your punishment is that you have to put up with a grounded Stiles.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Derek says, and everyone starts laughing.

“C’mon, kids,” Tom says, shaking his head. “Let’s go home.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The first half of the drive home passes in silence. Peter is just staring out the window. Finally, Chris asks Allison what happened, and she tells him about seeking advice from Kate because nobody was telling her anything. Chris groans a little. “Lesson learned,” he says. “No more secrets.”

“Yeah, it kind of would have been nice to know that my aunt was a psychopath,” Allison says, and Chris winces. She looks way. “Sorry, Dad. Sorry, I just – ”

“It’s fine,” Chris says. “I never told you because I honestly didn’t think she would ever hurt you. I thought – she loved you enough that – it doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong, and there are no words for how sorry I am. For how afraid I was.”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Allison says.

They pull into the driveway a few minutes later. Peter’s still sitting silently, and he doesn’t move when the car stops. Chris reaches over and gently touches his knee, and he startles. “Come on,” Chris says, getting out.

“This is your house,” Peter says slowly.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you’d take me back to the apartment.”

“No,” Chris says. “You said ‘take me home’, so I did. Because this is your home now.” He walks around the car and opens the passenger side door. “Come on,” he repeats, taking Peter by the hand and pulling him to his feet. Peter goes along with him. He still seems slow and shocky. Allison is waiting by the door, and she lets them in.

Victoria is in the kitchen, and she looks up as they come in. “Where have you two – oh.”

Chris nods at her a little and says, “A lot happened today, and I’ll tell you the details later, but the gist of it is that my father and sister are dead. And I’m the alpha now.” He lets his eyes flash red for her to see. “And this is Peter.”

They’ve met before, but only briefly, and it had obviously been years before. Victoria glances between the two of them, but then nods and says, “Hello, Peter.”

Peter nods a little, and then just leans against Chris, not saying anything.

“Are you hungry?” Victoria asks. “I’ve made a pork roast.”

“I think I’d just like to . . . lie down for a while,” Peter says.

“I’ll take you upstairs,” Chris says. He gets an arm around Peter’s waist and pulls him up the stairs, to his bedroom. He and Victoria haven’t shared a room in years, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about propriety. He leans in and kisses Peter a few times, helps him get undressed. Peter’s pliant under his hands, but doesn’t seem particularly excited. Chris isn’t really feeling it either, and he’s still pretty bloody, so he just tucks Peter into the bed. “Get some rest,” he says, and Peter closes his eyes.

He makes a quick stop to change clothes and clean himself up before going downstairs. Allison is telling Victoria about what happened, although she seems to be weighting the events towards how much Scott tried to protect her. Chris shakes his head a little but doesn’t say anything about it.

“Hey, Dad?” Allison says, once the food is on the table and they’re sitting down. “I want you to give me the Bite, okay?”

Chris looks up. “Are you sure?”

Allison nods. “I could have been more helpful today if I’d had it. I mean, at least you wouldn’t have had to worry about me getting hurt so much. And you need three betas to have a pack, right? If you don’t want to take control of your dad’s pack. You have Mom and Scott, but you’ll need one more.”

“Okay,” Chris says. “I’m gonna let you sleep on it, but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.” He reaches out and squeezes her hand. “I was never against you being a werewolf, Allison. I just wanted you to be able to make the choice yourself.”

“I know,” Allison says, and leans over to plant a kiss on his cheek. She smiles at him and says. “I think things are going to be okay. Right, Daddy?”

Chris smiles back. “Yeah,” he says, “I think everything’s going to be fine.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this fic got super long and sort of turned into a monster but I had a really good time writing it. I hope you've all enjoyed it! <3

 

Melissa is home by the time Tom and the others roll into the driveway, and she’s bewildered to find out how much has happened without her. They all sit down in the McCall’s living room, and put things together from the beginning. Tom got most of the bullet points from Chris on their way from the station to the house in the woods, and Derek is able to elaborate on some of them. It takes Melissa nearly twenty minutes to stop freaking out about the fact that her son is a werewolf, and she spends the rest of the discussion with her hand locked around his wrist, like she’s afraid he might disappear into thin air.

By the time they finish all the explanations, Melissa has grounded everyone for an extra week, including Derek. Derek seems okay with this. If it’s the only punishment he gets for his involvement with Kate, it’s nowhere near enough in his opinion. Then Melissa hugs all of them silly, and says they’ll order pizza.

Once the food is ordered and on the way, Melissa goes into the kitchen to get some drinks with Tom on her heels. She glances at him and says, “Do you think Peter’s going to be okay?”

“I don’t think Chris is going to settle for anything less, to be honest,” Tom says.

Melissa nods. “And . . . are _you_ okay? I know it’s a lot.”

There’s a long silence, and then Tom lets out a weary sigh. “It is. And I’d like to say I’m surprised by Peter committing murder, but I’m not. He would have been my number one suspect if I had realized he was awake, and in retrospect I’m sort of kicking myself for not thinking of that possibility. But . . . I’m committed to the law. I am. But it’s hard for me to say what I would have done if, if Claudia had been murdered instead of dying of cancer. That much loss . . . I can see why Peter did what he did. And I don’t want to see him in jail. So let’s just leave it at that.”

She peers out of the kitchen, at the four teenagers in the living room. They’re basically in a puppy pile, with Stiles in Derek’s lap, Scott leaning against Derek’s shoulder, and Cora sprawled out over all their legs. “How are the kids handling it?”

“They seem pretty freaked out, but who wouldn’t be?” Tom asks. “Not over what Peter did. Just over, you know . . .” He can’t bring himself to talk about how easily all four of them could have died a few hours earlier.

“Yeah.” Melissa wraps her arms around Tom’s waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “At least it’s over.”

“Amen to that,” Tom says.

The two of them head back into the living room with a bunch of cans of soda. Stiles tries to launch himself for one, trips over Cora, and sprawls out into a heap. Tom shakes his head as Derek grabs him and pulls him back upright. “So,” he says, “this hunter stuff.”

Derek’s expression becomes guarded. “What about it?”

“From now on, I expect to be one hundred percent in the loop,” Tom says, and sees some of the tension ease off Derek’s face. “I’m the sheriff, for crying out loud. I understand that you didn’t want me ‘in the know’ as it were, but that ship has sailed. So starting now, we work together.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says, with a faint smile.

“As for you two little delinquents . . .” Tom turns to Stiles and Cora. “I know you’re going to help him, so don’t insult me by asking me to believe that you won’t. But I’d better get the same thing from you. No more hiding things or lying. And no, Stiles, lying is _not_ defined as ‘being in a horizontal position’.”

“Fiiiiine,” Stiles says, in the tone of someone who has been maligned. “But no, seriously, I am so into this hunter stuff. This is so cool. I mean, not that I want to go out and hunt things, because I would seriously die by tripping over my own feet, but, the book-reading and the crime-researching. I’m all over it.”

Cora looks up at Tom with a more serious face. “I just want to make my mom proud.”

“Oh, honey,” Melissa says, drawing her into an embrace. “I knew your mom pretty well, you know, and I can say without reservation that she would be _so_ proud of you, both of you, even if you never did another day of hunting in your life.”

For a minute it looks like Cora might argue, but then she closes her eyes and nestles into Melissa’s embrace. “Thank you.”

The silence lasts a minute, and then Scott says, “So, Mom, we were talking earlier and we think you guys should get married.”

“I – excuse me?” Melissa says, raising her eyebrows at her son.

Derek looks up. “We know that you guys . . . didn’t want to make it weird for us. Because of everything that had happened. But it isn’t weird. It’s wonderful. So we just thought you should know – if you wanted to, I mean. We would like that.”

Melissa is blushing a dark pink, and Tom leans over to press a kiss into her temple. “I don’t know,” he says, voice doubtful, but obviously joking. “Which last name would we take? There are so many to choose from.”

“Just combine ‘em,” Stiles says. “We should be the . . . the McHaleinskis!”

“Dude, yeah!” Scott says enthusiastically, and Cora rolls her eyes but Derek just huffs out a little laugh, shaking his head.

“All right, kids,” Melissa says. “If you’re done proposing to me on Tom’s behalf . . .”

“I think they’re right, actually,” Tom says. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a little box. “I’ve been . . . holding onto this for a while. Because I didn’t want to make things weird, as they said. But I kept thinking about it today. When it got dangerous and I didn’t know for sure if I would make it home to you. I don’t want to waste any more time.” He goes to one knee in front of her and says, “Melissa Delgado McCall, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

Melissa goes from pink to red, and starts crying so hard that she can only manage to nod, one hand pressed over her mouth.

“Yes!” Stiles and Scott high-five, and Derek just laughs at them again, while Cora leans her head against Derek’s shoulder.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter wakes up with a start when he hears a door open. His eyes snap open and he remains perfectly still, assessing his surroundings and considering the danger, one hand curling around the knife that’s underneath his pillow. Everything is unfamiliar, the bed, the smell, the pillow itself. But the knife is there. Chris must have put it there for him.

“You’re awake, I presume.” The voice is feminine, not quite brisk enough to be unfriendly, but more businesslike. Peter loosens his grip on the knife and rolls over to see Victoria set down a tray on the bureau. “Chris told me you would probably wake up as soon as I came in.”

Peter rubs a hand over his face. He feels slow, cobwebby from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock,” Victoria says. “Chris is out. He asked me if I could wake you and make sure you got your medication.”

“Oh,” Peter says. Of course, Chris would think of that. He’s been reminding Peter to take it for the last several days, even when Peter needs no reminder. He knows that Peter has a tendency to skip his pain medication if possible, thinking he doesn’t need and/or deserve it.

“He also said you take your coffee black.” Victoria hands Peter a glass of water and two pills. He swallows them without hesitation, and then she exchanges the glass for a mug of coffee. “If you’d like some breakfast, we do usually cook on Sunday mornings, so come downstairs when you’re ready.”

“That won’t be awkward at all,” Peter remarks dryly, sipping the coffee. It’s _good_. He hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in six years. It takes effort not to close his eyes and moan.

Victoria folds her arms over her chest and turns to face him. “I love my husband,” she says. “And he loves me. He also loves you, and you love him. I see no reason why you and I can’t be, at the very least, friends. So, I’m inviting you down to breakfast, and I expect that you’ll attend.”

Peter feels a smile curl onto his face, an unfamiliar but genuine expression. “Yes, I think you and I will get along famously.”

“Good. Do you eat meat?”

“As often as possible.”

“Then come have some breakfast. Chris said you can borrow some of his clothes.” Victoria gives him a somewhat skeptical look. “They’ll be enormous on you, but I suppose they’ll have to do until we can arrange a shopping trip. Feel free to use the shower.”

“I can’t until Chris gets home,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to apply the medicated lotion right afterwards, and I doubt you want to help.”

“That does seem like post-second-date material,” Victoria agrees, and Peter laughs despite himself. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and exits the room. He shakes his head afterwards and gets out of bed. A quick rummage in Chris’ drawers gets him a pair of pajama pants and a sweatshirt. He’s not dressing up if he’s going to be getting in the shower soon. The drawstring on the pants keeps them from falling down, although Chris’ clothes are definitely a few sizes too large for him. He takes a few minutes to savor the rest of the coffee before leaving the room.

When he gets downstairs, Victoria is in the kitchen, tending a pan and talking on the phone. “I know it’s short-notice but . . . yes, exactly. I think that would be lovely. Yes, all right. Would you like us to bring anything? Oh, certainly. Okay. We’ll see you at one. Good bye.” She hangs up the phone and glances over her shoulder as Peter comes in.

“Plans?” Peter asks.

“Chris thought it would be nice if we could get together with the . . .” Victoria frowns. “Hale-Stilinski-McCalls is quite a mouthful, isn’t it? But I’m not sure what else to call them.”

“McHaleinskis,” Allison says, bouncing into the room. “That’s what Stiles decided last night, or so I heard over text. Good morning, Peter.”

“Good morning,” Peter says, eyeing her warily.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. Like, officially,” Allison says.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Peter says.

Victoria glances over her shoulder, smiles, and hands Allison a glass of orange juice. “In any case. Melissa says we’d be welcome to come over and have a picnic lunch with them this afternoon. We thought you would probably want to see your niece and nephew, since you didn’t exactly get to spend a lot of time with them yesterday.”

“Yes,” Peter murmurs. “That would be nice.”

Victoria does homestyle cooking, simple but filling and tasty. Peter isn’t about to complain. He digs in to the scrambled eggs with ham and cheese, and the plate of French toast she puts in front of him. “So where has Chris removed himself to, this fine morning?” he asks, between bites.

“He went to the compound,” Victoria says, “to talk to the other werewolves. They’ll be aware of the change by now.”

Peter scowls. “One of us should have gone with him.”

“I offered, but he said he would be fine. He’s the alpha now.”

“All the more reason for one of them to try to kill him and steal his power,” Peter says, “especially if he walks in there and says he’s disbanding the Argent pack and tells them all to get the hell off his territory.”

Victoria looks somewhat amused by this. “Do you think any of them will risk it, after what happened to Gerard and Kate? There are only a few rules in Beacon Hills, but I’ve heard that one of them is ‘don’t piss off Peter Hale’. I think you illustrated that nicely yesterday.”

Peter sighs. “You’re probably right. And Chris has certainly proven that he can take care of himself.” He pours more syrup onto his French toast. “Am I right, though? In that he decided to disband the pack?”

“He said he wanted to talk to some of his cousins. That he would be surprised if he gained more than a handful of betas from his family. But he did want to give some of them the chance.”

“So they can stab him in the back later?” Peter shakes his head. “Christopher is too honorable for his own good.”

“Mm,” Victoria agrees. “I suppose it’s our job to make sure he’s safe.”

Peter looks up and sees the little gleam in her eyes. It’s very familiar to him. He smiles widely, showing teeth. “Yes, we are going to get along famously, aren’t we.”

Despite that, the meal feels awkward and uncomfortable for him. Allison and Victoria chat about things he’s not familiar with, although they make every effort to include him. But he’s not a part of this family, and he doesn’t know how to act. He tries to smile, but it’s fake and he knows it, even if they don’t. Their kindness feels too much like pity. He feels like an intruder.

About an hour has passed, and he’s helping Victoria with the dishes, when the front door opens and Chris comes in. He’s dressed casually, but looks tired. There’s a moment of awkward hesitation when he comes into the kitchen, like he isn’t sure of who to greet first, and what sort of greeting is acceptable. He clearly decides that a nondescript greeting is safest, because he says, “Hey,” before walking the rest of the way in. Victoria settles the matter the rest of the way by moving to grab the pan off the stove so it can be put in the dishwasher. “Hey,” Chris says again, more quietly, and presses a kiss against Peter’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you,” Peter says, and makes an effort to act that way, even though he can feel the awkwardness like a knife. “Your wife is terrifying. I already like her. How did it go at the house?”

“About as well as could be expected,” Chris says, with a slight sigh. “A whole lot of people are really pissed off. They’re threatening reprisals and generally making a gigantic stink about it, crying foul.”

“What did you tell them?” Victoria asks.

“That they had twenty-four hours to get off my territory or they could suffer the consequences,” Chris says. “Those consequences being you,” he adds to Peter. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Quite the opposite,” Peter replies. That’s something he’s good at. Something he can offer. He’s good at killing. Always has been.

“Did anyone decide to stay?” Victoria asks.

“My cousin Stephanie and her husband,” Chris says. “A few other, more distantly related people. Less than a dozen all told.” He shakes his head and says, “None of them will last. I’ll probably wind up kicking them out anyway. At least three of them are actively plotting to take my head.”

“Sounds like a family meeting might be called for,” Peter says. “A demonstration on why that’s a bad idea.”

“You’d enjoy that, I’m sure,” Chris says, amused.

“Oh, I would, Christopher,” Peter says. “I really would.”

Victoria shakes her head. “You two can plot that out on your own time. Chris, Melissa has invited us over for a picnic lunch. I thought I would make some macaroni salad to bring. Do you mind running to the store for a few things?”

“Sure,” Chris says. He glances at Peter and says, “You probably want a few things, too. Since I doubt you want to go over to Melissa’s place wearing my pajamas.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees. “I can run my errands on my own, though.”

Chris shrugs. “You don’t have a car, and I’m going out anyway, so you might as well let me take you.”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Peter says, feeling annoyed. He still hasn’t showered, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t want to be a pain in the ass. His medical issues aren’t Chris’ problem. Chris and Victoria exchange a few more words, and she texts him a list of what she needs, and then they leave. Peter is still wearing the pajamas, and the clothes he has at the apartment aren’t much better. He hasn’t worn a pair of jeans in years.

“What’s on your mind?” Chris asks.

“How long have you leased that apartment for?” Peter replies.

A faint frown crosses Chris’ face. “Another four months. Why?”

“Well, I’m going to need a place to live,” Peter says. “That apartment strikes me as good as any other, I suppose. I wonder how I go about getting declared legally not dead? I suppose I can just keep my new identity.”

“I thought – ” Chris takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “I thought you would stay with us.”

“No, thank you,” Peter says. “I’m not – I can’t compete with that. I _won’t_ compete with that. With your wife and your daughter. I’m not a part of it and I don’t belong there.”

Chris opens his mouth, but then shakes his head. “You’re not in the mood to have this conversation right now. Okay. Let’s just get you some things. I’ll even just drop you off at the apartment if you want, as long as you promise to come see your niece and nephew this afternoon.”

“Yes, all right,” Peter says. “I promise.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Under normal circumstances, Tom would probably let Stiles sleep until he woke up on a Sunday morning. But these aren’t exactly normal circumstances. For one thing, he’s feeling a strong urge to see his son, make sure he’s okay, after what had happened the day before. He knows that it’s paranoid, but he thinks a father can be allowed a little paranoia after his son nearly got strangled to death by a werewolf.

Cora’s up by ten, and Melissa has called saying that the Argents are going to be coming over around one, and does he want to pick up a couple of six packs and maybe a store-bought cake or something on his way? He tells her he will, kisses Cora on the forehead, and then goes to see where Stiles is at.

He’s surprised to see that Stiles’ door is ajar, so he gives it a gentle knock before swinging it open. As it turns out, Stiles is still asleep, and he’s not alone. He’s sprawled out on his bed with one arm flung over Derek’s abdomen, face mashed into Derek’s shoulder. Tom is well-acquainted with his son’s habit of passing out mid-sentence after a long day, so somehow he isn’t surprised. He knows that Derek had still been there when he had gone to bed, but it hadn’t particularly worried or offended him. Clearly at some point, Stiles had fallen asleep, and Derek had dragged the blankets up over them both.

Derek is awake, however, his fingers twined with Stiles’, and he looks up when Tom opens the door, and flushes pink. “Oh, I – I’m sorry, he fell asleep and I didn’t want to – ”

“It’s fine,” Tom says. “It was a long weekend for everyone,” he adds, and Derek nods, expression a little distant. “You can stay the night. Any night, you know. You don’t have to ask my permission.”

Derek’s jaw sets a little, and he looks away, unable to meet Tom’s gaze. “That . . . that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Tom says. He lets out a sigh and leans against the door jam. “Look. Derek. I know that you’re probably all kinds of messed up about what happened with Kate. I don’t have words that will make it better. All I can say is that I trust you with Stiles one hundred percent. Even though he’s younger than you. Because you aren’t Kate. The two situations are nothing alike, and I know that you won’t hurt him. More than anything, I’d tell you not to let _him_ pressure _you_ into doing things before you’re ready for them, because you feel like he’ll expect them.”

“He . . . he’s been really good about it, actually,” Derek says. “He doesn’t really _get_ it, but maybe it’s impossible to get it if you haven’t gone through it. But he said . . . he’s okay with taking things as slow as I need to.”

“Good.” Tom makes a mental note to sit down with Stiles later and talk with him about this, make sure he knows what he’s getting into, but also make sure that Stiles knows how proud of him Tom is. He smiles and says, “I think you two are going to be great together, Derek.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I think so, too.”

“You might want to get up sooner rather than later, though. The Argents are going to be coming over around one o’clock for lunch, and bringing your uncle with them. Melissa would probably appreciate your help getting ready.”

“Oh, right,” Derek says, and shoves the blankets back. He’s still wearing the clothes he had been in yesterday, except for the fact that he had stripped off his jeans. Stiles makes a noise in his sleep and then rolls over. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just . . .”

Tom nods and exits the room gracefully, so Derek can get ready. He comes down the stairs a few minutes later, gives Cora a hug, and departs for the McCall house.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So do you think this is going to be the most awkward family picnic ever?” Scott asks his mother as he helps her make a salad. Derek glances over from where he’s prepping steaks for the grill, and gives a snort of laughter.

“I think that you should keep your opinions to yourself, sonny boy,” Melissa says, smacking his knuckles with a spoon.

“Is such a thing possible?” Derek asks dryly, and then gets Scott in a headlock, giving him a thorough noogie while Scott protests and laughs.

When the doorbell rings, Scott says, “I’ll get it!” and runs to the front hall before either of the others could protest. He opens it to find Chris, Victoria, and Allison. “Hi!” he says. “C’mon in. Hi, Allison,” he adds, blushing, and she gives him one of those Disney princess smiles and a quick kiss on the mouth. He blinks at her and tries to sniff her without being obvious. “You . . . you seem different.”

Allison pulls her shirt up a little to reveal the bandages on her side. “Dad gave me the Bite this morning. So this time tomorrow, I’ll be a beta, just like you.”

“Oh, wow,” Scott says. “That’s really cool.”

Melissa comes out into the front hallway and takes the bowl of pasta salad from Victoria, smiling at her and greeting Chris and Allison. “Where’s Peter?”

“He’s coming,” Chris says, then adds in an undertone, “He’d better.”

The Stilinskis show up a few minutes later, with dessert and beer as instructed. Tom greets Chris with a handshake, and Stiles jumps on Derek to give him a hug. The greetings are so loud and enthusiastic that Peter slips in unnoticed. He stands there for a few minutes, just watching, feeling even more like an intruder than ever.

Then Cora spots him. “Uncle Peter!” she says, throwing her arms around him. He hugs her back, as tightly as he can. He might not belong here, with this happy family, but he still has a niece and a nephew that he loves. He won’t leave them, no matter what. When she finally lets him go, Derek hugs him, too. It’s a little more awkward, but nice.

Somehow, they all end up in the backyard, and it’s not as uncomfortable as Peter had thought it would be. Scott and Allison are canoodling while Victoria admires Melissa’s new ring. Tom and Chris are talking about business while Derek tends the steaks and Stiles talks at him a mile a minute. Cora wants to show Peter all the stuff she’s learned, so they go out to the center of the yard. Peter shrugs out of the new leather jacket he just bought, leaving himself in a T-shirt and jeans, then gestures to her. “Okay. Show me what you’ve got.”

It’s been a long time, such a long time, since he sparred with anyone who was even close to being his equal. Cora’s good; she’s not experienced and she doesn’t have a lot of finesse, but she’s fast and stronger than she looks. Before long, their sparring match has an audience. Cora’s got more grounding in martial arts than Peter ever had, so she’s more economic with her energy, more focused. Sometimes he finds he’s even having to work for it.

After the third time he puts her in the dirt, to a pained ‘ooooh’ from the assembly, she pants out, “Yield,” and Peter helps her up. She tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears. “Guess I’ve got some work to do.”

“You do,” Peter says with a nod, but smiles despite himself. “But given that you’ve been on your own for the past six years, you’ve got an impressive skill set. Yesterday, when you dropped down from that tree and put a knife in Kate Argent’s throat . . . for a minute, I thought your mother had come back from the grave to help me.”

Cora’s lower lip wobbles, and she says, “Really?” Peter draws her into another embrace, hugging her tight as she starts to cry.

A few minutes pass before Derek says quietly, “The food’s ready,” and everyone gathers around the table. Since reconnecting with Cora was a great success, Peter seats himself next to Derek and asks what he’s been up to.

Derek’s a little shy at first, but he warms up to it, and starts telling Peter about the different hunters he’s made contact with, the murders he’s looked into and the monsters he’s helped get out of Beacon Hills. Peter notes with some amusement that Stiles is hanging on every word, eyes wide, clearly convinced that he’s dating some sort of action hero.

“I want to be a hunter, too,” he says to Peter, and further down the table, Tom groans. “I mean, I know that I’m pretty pathetic when it comes to fighting, but I can make crime walls like a _boss_.”

Peter gives a snort. “Okay, let’s see,” he says, and stands up, gesturing Stiles away from the table. He holds up a hand. “Hit me,” he says. “As hard as you can.”

“Uh . . .” Stiles says.

“Go on,” Tom says, looking on with amusement.

“Okay,” Stiles says, draws back a fist, and punches Peter in the hand so hard that he nearly falls over following through. Peter grabs him by the shoulder before he can take a nosedive into the dirt.

“Not bad,” Peter says, and Stiles brightens. “You’re stronger than you look. You play sports?”

“Lacrosse,” Stiles says.

“Of course,” Peter says, amused. “I could tell you a story or two about your father’s lacrosse-playing days. Does he know about the Locker Room Incident?”

“No such thing ever happened,” Tom says firmly, and Stiles perks up. “And don’t you dare tell anyone differently.”

Peter lifts his hands in surrender and laughs. “I can probably teach you the basics, Stiles. Even if you aren’t going to be in the field. Every hunter should know how to defend themselves if necessary.”

“Awesome,” Stiles breathes out.

Tom shakes his head, as Peter goes back to the table and sits down. “Which reminds me,” Peter says, “I didn’t have time to thank you yesterday, Tom. Not just for the fact that you shot Gerard before I could do anything we would all regret. But for what happened after I was hurt. You saved my life.”

“Just doin’ my job,” Tom says, taking a drink of his beer.

“I’m fairly sure ‘faking the death of an attack victim and illegally obtaining them a fake identity’ is not taught at the Police Academy,” Peter says, and Tom just shrugs. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tom says. “Who wants dessert?”

There’s cake and fruit salad, and Melissa brings out some iced tea and bottled water, since soda and beer don’t go well with cake. Everyone eats until they’re stuffed silly. Then the teenagers decide to go play a game of Frisbee while the adults talk about adult-things. Peter is fairly sure that they would be disappointed to know the ‘adult things’ mainly involve the upcoming Packers game, what kind of wedding Tom and Melissa want, and a lengthy discussion of who gets the leftover cake.

He tunes it out, watching the kids, and is a little startled when Chris pulls his chair over, lacing his fingers through Peter’s. Peter glances at him but says nothing. It seems like there’s so much they need to talk about, but he doesn’t know how to talk about any of it. But Chris doesn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, he seems content. “What are you smiling about over there?” Peter asks, glancing up at him.

“I was just thinking,” Chris says, not looking up from where he was watching Scott and Derek toss the Frisbee back and forth. “If a hunter and a werewolf being lovers wasn’t enough to bring about a peace, maybe a hunter and a werewolf being brothers will be.”

“Mm,” is all Peter says in response.

Now Chris looks at him. “Do you still believe there’s no happy ending in this?”

“Well,” Peter says, “Maybe. But maybe not. Even someone as brilliant as I am does occasionally get things wrong.”

Chris gives a snort of laughter.

Parting isn’t as bad as it could be. Cora has a gymnastics tournament the following weekend that Peter’s expected to attend, but she doesn’t want to go an entire week without seeing her uncle, now that he’s back, and Derek doesn’t either. Tom invites Peter over to their usual Tuesday night dinner, and he accepts. Laura is flying in; Derek called her to let her know that Peter had woken up, although he hadn’t given her any details.

“How did you get here, did you walk?” Chris asks as they’re leaving, and Peter nods. “You can ride with us, then.”

“If I must,” Peter says with a sigh. He wants to go back to the apartment, but Chris says no, they’re going back to the house. Peter gets annoyed and snippy with him, but Chris doesn’t rise to his baiting. In fact, he barely speaks at all, until they’re back in his bedroom and the doors are shut. “So apparently we need to talk,” he says.

“Apparently,” Peter says, folding his arms over his chest.

“I meant what I said to you yesterday,” Chris says. “I want to give you a home here. Believe me or don’t, but I had already talked to Victoria about you staying here, Saturday morning, before Kate took Allison. I want that.”

“Well, forgive me for being a little slow to believe you,” Peter says. “You’ve always kept me at arm’s length before. I’ve always just been – ” His jaw tightens. “I’m not your _priority_. I never have been and never will be.”

“That’s what my father said to you when he was trying to get you to shoot yourself in the head,” Chris points out.

“Just because it came out of Gerard Argent’s mouth doesn’t mean it’s untrue,” Peter says. “I can’t do this, Chris. I can’t be your second choice anymore. That first day, you told me it’s all or nothing with you. Maybe I should have said the same thing to you.”

“Yeah,” Chris says quietly. “Maybe you should have.” He’s quiet for a minute, watching Peter, who won’t look at him. “Do you know what I was thinking as I drove back to Beacon Hills that night?” he finally asks. “Before I knew that your family had been killed, that . . . that everything had changed? I was thinking about asking you to come to Wyoming with us.”

Peter blinks. Then his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Really?”

“The ranch was huge. There would have been plenty of room. I had been making arrangements up there for a while. After Eloise was killed, I knew that I might have to leave in a hurry. I didn’t know anything about ranches, but I’d taken some business and accounting classes in college. I was pretty sure I could muddle through it. I thought, it would be a good place for us. That I could still be Allison’s father, still be there for her, but . . . there would be room for you, too. Not just in the ranch, but in my life, in a way that . . . there hadn’t been before. I was thinking about what you said the day you invited me to New York. That it would have been just you and me.”

“And what did Victoria think of this?” Peter asks, still obviously skeptical.

“She didn’t care. You have to understand Victoria. Her family sold her off as a way to help Gerard spit in Eloise’s eye. She was told the entire time that she was being given to me _because_ she was a lesser wolf. She expected me to be an awful person who treated her horribly.” Chris lets out a breath. “Victoria isn’t just my wife, Peter. She’s also my friend. She wants me to be happy. And she knew, maybe even before I did, that the only way I would ever really be happy was if I had you.”

“You had me,” Peter says. “You always had me.”

“But not the way either of us wanted,” Chris says. “I was a coward, okay? Does it make you feel better to hear me say it? I loved you since I was eighteen but other things – family, duty – they got in the way. And I didn’t have the courage to try to fix it, or maybe I just didn’t know how. I thought I could just keep you on the side, have my cake and eat it too. It was a shitty way to treat you, but I never meant to hurt you.”

Peter looks away. “I suppose I should take some responsibility,” he says. “It isn’t like I ever told you. Or that . . . I’m the sort of person you would naturally believe that sort of thing about.”

Chris shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re an arrogant, devious, manipulative son of a bitch. But you never lied to me. You told me that when I was seventeen and I should have believed you. And . . . about Victoria and Allison. I know it’s awkward and weird. God, I know that. But they want you here. For my sake, if not for your own. Yes, it’s going to take some getting used to. But don’t run away from me just because breakfast yesterday was uncomfortable.”

Peter sighs. “So where does this put us?”

“I just want you to know that what my father said yesterday wasn’t true,” Chris says. “That’s all. And that . . . there’s a place for you here, if you want it. That’s what I want. I want you here, with me. Allison and Victoria are important to me, but you’re important to me, too. You’re not _more_ important than my daughter, but you’re _as_ important. I never could have made that choice yesterday. I want you to stay here, with me, and help me take care of the mess my father made. We can take back Beacon Hills. We can, the two of us, together. If that – if that’s what you want. You don’t have to answer me right now. Take your time to think about it. If you – ”

“Christopher,” Peter interrupts, “for God’s sake, shut up and kiss me.”

Chris doesn’t even _think_ , he just lunges forward and seals his mouth to Peter’s, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Peter’s head. But the kiss itself is surprisingly gentle, slow and sweet.

When he pulls away, Peter pursues him, but instead of kissing him again, says against his mouth, “My answer is yes.” Then he kisses him. “But I hope you understand you’ll never be rid of me now.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Chris tells him.

Peter smirks. “So I win.”

“You win,” Chris agrees, and pushes him back onto the bed.

 

~fin~


End file.
